UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 
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DOXEY 


Idle  Hours  in  a  Library 


By  the  same  Author 
The  Church  and  the  Stage 

Introduction  to  the  Philosophy 
of  Herbert  Spencer 

Studies  in  Interpretation 


Idle  Hours  in  a  Library 


By 

William  Henry  Hudson 

Professor  of  English  Literature,  Stanford  University 


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William  Doxey 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Lark 

San  Francisco 


Copyright,  1897 
William  Doxky 


THE  DOXEY  PRESS 


TO 

F.  E.  H. 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  THE 
DEAR  OLD  DAYS 


Preface 


The  title  of  this  little  volume  was  chosen  because  it 
seems  to  indicate  a  characteristic  possessed  in  com- 
mon by  the  otherwise  unrelated  essays  here  brought 
together.  They  may  all  be  described  in  a  general  way 
as  holiday  tasks — the  results  of  many  hours  of  quiet 
but  rather  aimless  browsing  among  books,  and  not 
of  special  investigations,  undertaken  with  a  view  to 
definite  scholastic  ends.  They  are,  moreover,  as  will 
readily  be  seen,  completely  unacademic  in  style  and 
intention.  Three  of  the  papers  were  originally  put 
into  shape  as  popular  lectures.  The  remaining  one — 
that  on  the  Restoration  novelists  —  was  written  for  a 
magazine  which  appeals  not  to  a  special  body  of  stu- 
dents, but  to  the  more  general  reading  public.  The 
title,  hit  upon  after  some  little  searching,  will,  I  believe, 
therefore  be  accepted  as  fairly  descriptive,  and  will 
not,  I  hope,  be  condemned  as  overfanciral. 

A  word  or  two  of  more  detailed  explanation  may, 
perhaps,   be   permitted.     Of  the  essays  on  Pepys's 


Preface 

Diary  and  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life,"  I  would 
simply  say  that  they  may  be  taken  to  testify  to  the 
unfailing  sources  of  unalloyed  enjoyment  I  have  found 
in  these  delightful  books;  and  I  should  be  pleased  to 
think  that,  while  they  may  renew  for  some  readers  the 
charm  of  old  associations,  they  may  perhaps  send 
others  here  and  there  for  the  first  time  to  the  works 
themselves — in  which  case  I  shall  be  sure  of  the  grati- 
tude of  some  at  least  of  those  into  whose  hands  this 
little  volume  may  chance  to  fall.  I  can  scarcely  say  as 
much  as  this  for  the  study  of  Mrs.  Behn  and  Mrs. 
Manley — for  most  readers  will  be  quite  as  well  off  if 
they  leave  the  lucubrations  of  these  two  ladies  alone. 
But  in  these  days  we  all  read  novels;  and  it  has 
seemed  to  me,  therefore,  that  my  brief  account  of 
some  of  the  early  experiments  in  English  fiction  may 
not  be  altogether  lacking  in  interest  and  suggestive- 
ness.  Thus,  after  some  hesitation,  I  decided  to  find  a 
place  for  the  authors  of  "Oroonoko"  and  "The  New 
Atalantis"  in  these  pages.  So  far  as  the  chapter  on 
Shakspere's  London  is  concerned,  it  is  needless  to  do 
more  than  indicate  the  way  in  which  it  came  to  be 
written.  A  number  of  years  ago,  while  engaged  for 
other  purposes  in  the  study  of  Elizabethan  popular 
literature,  and  more  especially  of  the  drama  of  the 
period,  I  began,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  to  jot  down, 
as  I  lighted  upon  them,  the  more  striking  references 


Preface 

and  allusions  to  manners,  customs,  and  the  social  life 
of  the  time.  I  presently  found  that  I  had  thus  gath- 
ered a  good  deal  of  miscellaneous  material;  and  it 
then  occurred  to  me  that,  properly  organized,  my 
memoranda  might  be  made  into  an  interesting  popular 
lecture.  The  lecture  was  presently  prepared,  and  was 
frequently  delivered,  both  in  England  and  in  this 
country.  Naturally  enough,  the  paper  can  lay  no  claim 
to  exhaustiveness;  it  is  scrappy,  formless,  and  some- 
times superficial.  But  the  reader  of  Shakspere  may 
find  it  of  some  value,  so  far  as  it  goes. 

The  essay  on  the  Restoration  novel  is  reproduced, 
greatly  changed  and  somewhat  amplified,  from  the 
English  magazine,  "Time."  The  remainder  of  the 
volume  has  not  before  been  in  print. 

In  such  a  book  as  this,  it  would  be  pedantic  to 
make  a  display  of  authorities  and  references,  though  I 
hope  that  any  direct  indebtedness  has  always  been 
duly  recorded  in  the  proper  place.  But  I  must  do 
myself  the  pleasure  of  adding,  that  here,  as  elsewhere 
in  my  work,  I  have  gained  more  than  I  can  say  from 
the  help  and  encouragement  of  my  wife. 

WILLIAM   HENRY  HUDSON. 

Stanford  University,  California,  1897 


Contents 

Page 

London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time  ...  i 

Pepys  and  His  Diary    .......  65 

Two  Novelists  of  the  English  Restoration  .  125 

A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 181 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

IT  is  the  purpose  of  the  present  paper  to  give 
some  glimpses  of  every- day  life  in  the  English 
metropolis  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  and 
the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  centuries.  Our 
subject  will  take  us  from  the  main  highways  of 
history  into  by-paths  illuminated  by  the  popular 
literature  of  the  time.  It  is  not  the  grave  histo- 
rian, the  statesman,  or  the  philosopher,  but  rather 
the  common  playwright,  the  ballad-monger,  the 
pamphleteer,  whom  we  must  take  here  as  our 
guides.  Yet  ere  we  intrust  ourselves  to  their  care 
it  will  not  be  amiss  if,  with  the  view  of  making 
the  clearer  what  we  shall  presently  have  to  say, 
we  pause  for  a  moment  at  the  outset  to  consider 
some  of  the  more  general  aspects  of  the  period 
with  which  we  are  to  deal. 

Looking,  then,  first  of  all,  at  the  political  con- 
ditions of  the  time,  we  may  describe  the  history 
of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  as  the  history  of  con- 
solidation   rather    than   of   superficial    change. 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

What  strikes  us  most  is  not  the  addition  of  fresh 
culture-elements,  but  the  reorganization  and  ex- 
pansion of  elements  already  existing.  The  forces 
of  evolution  had  turned  inward,  acting  more 
upon  the  internal  structure  than  upon  the  exter- 
nal forms  of  society.  The  Wars  of  the  Roses 
were  now  things  of  recollection  only,  the  fierce 
contentions  which  the  struggle  between  York  and 
Lancaster  had  produced  having  subsided  with 
most  of  the  bitter  feelings  engendered  by  them. 
Save  for  the  collision  with  Spain,  which  ended  in 
the  defeat  of  the  great  Armada,  England  enjoyed 
a  singular  immunity  from  complications  with 
foreign  powers;  and  an  opportunity,  freely  made 
use  of,  was  thus  offered  for  the  development  of 
foreign  trade.  The  growth  of  a  strong  commer- 
cial sentiment,  consequent  on  this,  acted  as  a 
powerful  solvent  in  the  dissolution  of  feudal 
ideas  and  the  disintegration  of  feudal  forms  of 
life.  The  conflict  was  now  mainly  between  opin- 
ions— between  rival  forces  of  an  intellectual  and 
moral  character.  The  power  of  the  upper  classes 
—  the  representatives  of  the  ancient  regime  of 
chivalry — was  on  the  wane;  the  power  of  the 
middle  classes — the  representatives  of  the  mod- 
ern regime  of  commerce  —  showed  correspond- 
ing growth.     The ,  voice  of  the  people,  through 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

their  delegates  in  Parliament,  began  to  be  ac- 
knowledged by  the  caution  exhibited  on  sundry 
critical  occasions  by  the  crown;  the  country  at 
large  was  growing  richer  and  stronger;  the  sense 
of  English  unity  was  intensified  by  the  very 
dangers  which  menaced  the  national  life;  and  as 
men  came  more  and  more  to  recognize  their 
individualities,  they  demanded  greater  freedom 
of  thought  and  speech.  "England,  alone  of 
European  nations,"  as  Mr.  Symonds  pointed 
out,  "received  the  influences  of  both  Renais- 
sance and  Reformation  simultaneously."  The 
mighty  forces  generated  by  these  two  movements 
in  combination — one  emancipating  the  reason, 
the  other  the  conscience,  from  the  trammels  of 
the  Middle  Ages  —  told  in  countless  ways  upon 
the  masses  of  society.  But  with  all  this, — partly, 
indeed,  in  consequence  of  all  this, —  there  was  a 
deep-seated  restlessness  at  the  very  springs  of 
life.  The  contests  of  opposing  parties  were  car- 
ried on  with  a  fierceness  and  acerbity  of  which 
we  know  little  in  these  more  moderate  days;  the 
minds  of  men  were  set  at  variance  and  thrown 
into  confusion  by  a  thousand  distracting  issues; 
and,  unrealized  as  yet  in  all  their  significance  and 
power,  those  Titanic  religious  and  political  agen- 
cies were  beginning  to  take  shape  which  were 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

by  and  by  to  rend  English  society  to  its  very 
core. 

When  we  turn  from  the  political  character  of 
the  age  to  the  moral  character  of  the  people,  we 
find  it  difficult  to  avoid  having  recourse  to  a 
series  of  antitheses,  after  the  familiar  manner  of 
Macaulay,  so  violent  and  surprising  are  the  con- 
trasts, so  diverse  the  component  qualities  which 
analysis  everywhere  brings  to  light.  The  age 
was  virile  in  its  power,  its  restlessness,  its  amaz- 
ing energy  and  fertility;  it  was  virile,  too,  in  its 
unrestraint,  its  fierceness,  its  licentiousness  and 
brutality.  Men  gloried  in  their  newly  conquered 
freedom,  and  in  that  wider  knowledge  of  the 
world  which  had  been  opened  up  to  them  by  the 
study  of  the  past,  by  the  scientific  researches  of 
Copernicus,  Kepler,  and  Galileo,  by  the  discov- 
eries of  Amerigo  Vespucci,  Columbus,  Jenkin- 
son,  Willoughby,  Drake.  National  feeling  was 
strong;  the  national  pulse  beat  high.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  Protestantism  and  an  open  Bible,  it  was 
essentially  a  pagan  age;  in  spite  of  its  Platonism 
and  Euphuism,  a  coarse  and  sensual  one.  You 
had  only  to  scratch  the  superficial  polish  to  find 
the  old  savagery  beneath.  Your  smiling  and 
graceful  courtier  would  discourse  of  Seneca  and 
Aristotle,  but  he  would  relish  the  obscenest  jest 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

and  act  his  part  in  the  grossest  intrigue.  Your 
young  gallant  would  turn  an  Italian  sonnet,  or 
"tune  the  music  of  an  ever  vain  tongue,"  but 
within  an  hour  he  might  have  been  found  in  all 
the  blood  and  filth  and  turmoil  of  the  cockpit  or 
the  bear- ring.  The  unseemliest  freedom  pre- 
vailed throughout  society  —  amidst  the  noble 
ladies  in  immediate  attendance  upon  the  queen, 
and  thence  all  down  the  social  scale.  Laws  were 
horribly  brutal,  habits  revoltingly  rude.  All  the 
powerful  instincts  of  a  fresh,  buoyant,  self-reliant, 
ambitious,  robust,  sensuous  manhood  had  burst 
loose,  finding  expression  now  in  wild  extrava- 
gance, indulgence,  animalism,  now  in  great  effort 
on  distant  seas,  now  in  the  mighty  utterances 
of  the  drama;  for  these  things  were  but  different 
facets  of  the  same  national  character.  Still,  with 
all  its  gigantic  prodigality  of  energy,  with  all  its 
untempered  misuse  of  genius  and  power,  the 
English  Renaissance  kept  itself  free  from  many 
of  the  worst  features  of  the  Spanish  and  Italian 
revivals.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Benvenuto 
Cellini  to  call  the  English  ' '  wild  beasts. ' '  Deep 
down  beneath  the  casuistry  and  Euphuism,  be- 
neath the  artificiality  and  the  glittering  veneer, 
beneath  the  coarseness  and  the  brutalism,  there 
was  ever  to  be  found  that  which  was  lacking  in 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

the  Southern  character  —  a  stern,  hardy,  tough- 
fibred  moral  sense,  which  in  that  critical  period 
of  disquietude  and  upheaval  formed  indeed  the 
very  sheet-anchor  of  the  nation's  hopes.  It  must 
never  be  forgotten  that  it  was  this  age  of  new- 
found freedom,  and  of  that  license  which  went 
with  it  like  its  shadow,  that  produced  such  types 
of  magnificent  manhood  as  Raleigh,  strong  ''the 
fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook";  as 
Spenser,  sweetest  and  purest  of  poets  and  of 
men;  as  Sidney,  whom  that  same  Spenser  might 
well  describe  as  "the  most  noble  and  virtuous 
gentleman,  most  worthy  of  all  titles,  both  of 
learning  and  chivalry";  as  Shakspere,  whom, 
all  slanders  notwithstanding,  we,  like  his  own 
close  friends,  still  think  and  speak  of  as  our 
"Gentle  Will." 

Such,  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  sum  them  up  in 
a  few  brief  sentences,  were  some  of  the  salient 
characteristics  of  the  great  age  of  the  Virgin 
Queen  —  an  age,  as  Dean  Church  has  said,  '  ■  of 
vast  ambitious  adventure,  which  went  to  sea,  little 
knowing  whither  it  went,  and  ill-provided  with 
knowledge  or  instrument ' ' ;  but  an  age  of  mag- 
nificent enterprise  and  achievement,  none  the 
less.  And  now  it  is  for  us  to  follow  down  into 
some  of  the  details  of  their  private,  every-day 

6 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

existence  the  men  and  women  who,  to  use  a  sug- 
gestive phrase  of  Goethe's,  were  the  citizens  of 
this  period,  and  whose-  little  lives  shared,  no 
matter  in  how  small  and  obscure  a  way,  in  the 
movements  and  destinies  of  the  large  world  into 
which  they  were  born. 

Just  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth's death,  a  proclamation  was  issued,  reciting 
that  her  Majesty  foresaw  that  ' '  great  and  mani- 
fold inconveniences  and  mischiefs"  were  likely 
to  arise  "from  the  access  and  confluence  of  the 
people"  to  the  metropolis,  and  making  certain 
stringent  provisions  with  a  view  to  keeping  down 
the  population  of  the  city.  This  enactment  is 
useful  as  showing  us  that  even  at  that  early  date, 
—  as  later  on,  in  the  time  of  Smollett,  —  the  enor- 
mous growth  of  London'was  held  to  be  matter  for 
alarm.  London  was  indeed  increasing  rapidly  in 
extent,  population,  wealth,  and  power;  and  Lyly 
was  hardly  guilty  of  extravagance  when,  in  his 
"Euphues,"  he  wrote  of  it  as  a  place  that  "both 
for  the  beauty  of  building,  infinite  riches,  variety 
of  all  things,"  "excelleth  all  the  cities  of  the 
world;  insomuch  that  it  may  be  called  the  store- 
house or  mart  of  all  Europe."  Yet  we  are  most 
of  us   probably  unable  without   much  effort  to 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

realize  how  different  was  the  English  metropolis 
of  Elizabeth's  time  from  the  metropolis  of  the 
present  day. 

We  have  to  remember,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  London  with  which  we  are  now  concerned 
was  a  walled  city,  and  that  the  territory  which  lay 
within  the  walls, — that  is,  the  metropolis  proper, 
—  represented  but  a  very  small  portion  of  what 
is  now  included  within  the  civic  area.  Newgate, 
Ludgate,  Aldgate,  Bishopsgate,  Cripplegate,  and 
Aldersgate,  still  mark  out  and  perpetuate  by  their 
names  the  narrow  lines  of  those  protecting  walls 
which  held  snug  and  secure  the  mere  handful  of 
folk  of  which  London  was  then  composed.  At 
nine  o'  clock  in  the  evening,  when  Bow-bell  rang, 
and  the  voices  of  the  other  city  churches  took 
up  the  curfew-strain,  the  gates  were  shut  for  the 
night,  and  the  citizens  retired  to  their  dwellings 
under  the  protection  of  armed  watchmen  who 
guarded  their  slumbers  along  the  walls.  West- 
ward from  Fleet  Street  and  Holborn,  beyond 
which  so  much  of  modern  London  lies,  the  city 
had  not  then  penetrated. 

Within  and  about  the  walls  there  were  many 
" fair  churches  for  divine  service,"  with  old  St. 
Paul's  in  their  midst — the  Gothic  St.  Paul's  of 
the  days  before  the  great  fire*,  and  many  prisons 

8 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

to  help  the  churches  in  their  philanthropic  work. 
Open  spaces  were  very  numerous;  trees  were 
everywhere  to  be  seen;  fields  invaded  the  most 
sacred  strongholds  of  commercial  activity;  con- 
duits and  brooks  (whereof  Lamb's  Conduit  Street 
to-day  carries  a  nominal  reminiscence)  flowed 
through  every  part  of  the  town.  The  narrow, 
straggling  streets  ran  hither  and  thither  with  no 
very  marked  definity  of  aim;  for  county  councils 
had  not  as  yet  come  into  existence,  and  metropol- 
itan improvements  were  still  hidden  in  the  womb 
of  time;  and  so  unsanitary  were  the  general  con- 
ditions that  they  were  seldom  free  from  epidemic 
disease.  Cheap,  with  its  old  cross  just  opposite 
the  entrance  to  Wood  Street,  was  a  famous  spot 
for  trading  of  all  kinds;  but  there  were  other 
localities  which  had  their  specialized  activities. 
St.  Paul's,  for  instance,  was  the  acknowledged 
quarter  for  booksellers,  as  indeed  it  has  continued 
to  be  down  to  the  present  time.  Houndsditch, 
like  the  Houndsditch  of  to-day,  and  Long  Lane 
in  Smithfield,  abounded  in  shops  for  second- 
hand clothing  — fripperies,  as  they  were  called. 
"He  shows  like  a  walking  frippery,"  says  one 
of  the  characters  in  "The  City  Madam";  while 
it  was  in  the  latter  place  that  Mistress  Birdlime 
in  "Westward   Ho"  speaks   of  "hiring   three 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

liveries."  In  St.  Martin' s-le-Grand  clustered  the 
foreign  handicraftsmen  of  doubtful  character,  who 
manufactured  copper  lace  and  imitation  jewel- 
lery; and  Watling  Street  and  Birchin  Lane  were 
the  haunts  of  the  tailors.  Then,  again,  it  was 
in  Bucklersbury  that  the  grocers  and  druggists 
most  did  congregate.  "Go  to  Bucklersbury  and 
fetch  me  two  ounces  of  preserved  melons,"  says 
Mistress  Tenterhook  in  "Westward  Ho."  Fleet 
Lane  and  Pie  Corner  were  so  famous  for  their 
cook-shops  that  Anne  in  "The  City  Madam" 
might  well  exclaim,  when  the  porters  enter  with 
their  baskets  of  provisions,  that  they  smell  un- 
mistakably of  these  localities;  while  to  Panyer 
Alley  repaired  all  true  lovers  of  tripe.  Even 
religious  opinions  had  their  special  homes. 
Bloomsbury  and  Drury  Lane,  for  example,  were 
favorite  haunts  of  Catholics;  and  the  Puritans 
were  particularly  strong  in  Blackfriars.  This 
explains  the  words  put  by  Webster  into  the 
mouth  of  one  of  his  characters:  "We  are  as 
pure  about  the  heart  as  if  we  dwelt  amongst  'em 
in  Blackfriars,"  and  Doll  Common's  description 
of  Face,  in  "The  Alchemist,"  as  — 

"A  rascal,  upstart,  apocryphal  captain, 
Whom  not  a  Puritan  in  Blackfriars  will  trust." 


10 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

And  through  all  this  jumble  of  wealth  and 
dirt,  away  past  the  suburbs  and  into  the  open 
country  beyond,  ran  ' '  the  famous  River  Thames ' ' 
— the  "great  silent  highway,"  as  it  has  been 
called, —  fed  by  the  Fleet  and  other  forgotten 
and  now  hidden  streams,  and  bearing  upon  its 
majestic  current  its  hundreds  of  watermen,  its 
boats,  its  barges,  and  its  swans.  It  was  spanned 
by  a  single  bridge,  of  which  Lyly  speaks  enthu- 
siastically in  his  "Euphues,"  and  which  is  de- 
scribed by  the  German  traveller,  Paul  Hentzner, 
as  "a  bridge  of  stone,  eight  hundred  feet  in 
length,  of  wonderful  work.  It  is  supported," 
this  writer  continues,  "upon  twenty  piers  of 
square  stone,  sixty  feet  high  and  thirty  broad, 
joined  by  arches  of  about  twenty  feet  diameter." 
And  he  adds,  touching  in  a  brief  sentence  upon 
a  characteristic  of  its  structure  which  must  seem 
particularly  curious  to  modern  readers:  "The 
whole  is  covered  on  each  side  with  houses,  so 
disposed  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  a  contin- 
ued street,  not  at  all  of  a  bridge." 

But  if  the  difference  between  to-day  and  three 
centuries  ago  is  striking  enough  within  the  city 
walls,  still  more  striking  does  it  become  as  we 
pass  beyond  the  gates.  Fleet  Street,  where  Dr. 
Johnson  was   presently  to  enjoy  watching  the 

ii 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  of  the  great  tide  of  human 
life,  was  still  suburban;  Chancery  Lane,  with  its 
wide  gardens  on  the  eastern  side  and  Lincoln's 
Inn  enclosure  on  the  western,  possessed  only  a 
few  scattered  houses  at  either  end.  The  Strand — 
"That  goodly  thoroughfare  between 
The  court  and  city," 

as  a  Puritan  poet  called  it — was  a  long  country 
road  flanked  with  noblemen's  houses  ("a  con- 
tinual row  of  palaces,  belonging  to  the  chief 
nobility,"  Hentzner  says),  the  gardens  of  which 
on  the  one  side  ran  down  to  the  river,  and  on 
the  other  backed  upon  the  fine  open  space  of 
pasture-land  called  Covent  (that  is,  Convent) 
Garden.  At  Charing  there  was  an  ancient  cross, 
and  beyond,  wide  fields  known  as  the  Hay- 
market,  the  quiet  stretches  of  St.  James's  Park, 
and  the  wide  country  road  called  Piccadilly,  the 
regular  highway  to  Reading  and  the  west.  St. 
Martin's  Lane  ran  up  between  hedgerows  and 
meadows  to  Tottenham,  or  Totten  Court.  In  the 
other  direction,  towards  Westminster,  there  was 
the  Court,  with  its  Tiltyard,  standing  where  the 
Horseguards  now  stand,  and  beyond  this  the  city 
of  Westminster,  with  its  abbey  and  great  hall, 
lying  in  the  quiet  fields.  Just  opposite,  on  the 
other  bank,  in  an  unbroken  expanse  of  country, 

12 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

stood  Lambeth  Palace,  whence  a  long,  lonely 
road  led  eastward,  through  Lambeth  Marsh,  to 
the  city  purlieus  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  water. 
What  we  know  as  the  suburbs  of  London 
were  then  separate  villages,  to  reach  which  one 
had  to  make  a  tedious  journey  over  open  country 
and  along  desolate  lanes.  Finsbury  Field  was 
covered  with  windmills,  and  there  the  archers 
met  for  practice.  Islington  was  famous,  to  quote 
Ben  Jonson,  for  the  citizens  that  went  a-ducking 
—  that  is,  duck-hunting — in  its  ponds.  Pimlico 
and  Holloway  were  favorite  resorts  of  pleasure- 
seeking  townsfolk  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Hox- 
ton  and  Hampstead  and  Willesden  lay  far  away 
in  the  country;  Holborn  was  a  rural  highway 
running  through  the  little  village  of  St.  Giles's 
towards  Oxford;  and  the  Edgeware  Road  took 
you  away  to  Tyburn,  the  spot  which  has  acquired 
such  grim  notoriety  in  the  annals  of  crime. 
Highway  robberies  took  place  at  Kentish  Town 
and  Hampstead;  even  the  Queen's  Majesty  was 
mobbed  by  a  handful  of  ruffians  in  the  sequested 
neighborhood  of  Islington,  which  stood  alone 
among  the  hills  to  the  north;  while  no  man  who 
valued  his  life  would  venture  to  walk  after  night- 
fall, unarmed  or  unprotected,  as  far  into  the 
country  as  Hyde  Park  Corner. 

13 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

Let  us  now  look  a  little  more  closely  at  the 
street  life  of  the  city  which  we  have  thus  roughly 
sketched. 

There  was  little  of  that  never-ceasing  bustle 
with  which  we  are  familiar — little  of  the  eternal 
hurry,  the  intense  strain,  the  rush  and  turmoil  of 
our  modern  existence;  but  the  buzz  of  commerce 
was  everywhere  to  be  heard,  telling  us  that  the 
world  was  not  asleep.  The  streets  were  rough, 
ill-paved,  and  narrow,  and  the  appearance  of  a 
vehicle  in  them  was  sufficiently  rare  an  occurrence 
to  attract  attention;  though  the  ostentation  of  the 
rich  in  making  use  of  carriages  on  every  possible 
occasion  was  already  beginning  to  be  satirized 
by  the  writers  of  the  time — as,  for  instance, 
by  Massinger  in  "The  City  Madam,"  and  by 
Cooke  in  "Greene's  Tu  Quoque."  There  were 
the  churches — six  score  or  so  of  them,  Lyly  tells 
us,  within  the  walls;  the  inns,  with  their  wide 
hostleries;  the  private  houses,  built  not  in  long 
uniform  rows,  but  irregularly,  as  though  they 
desired  to  preserve  some  traces  of  personal  char- 
acter. Their  upper  stories  were  frequently  built 
out,  and  sometimes  projected  so  far  across  the 
narrow  streetway  that  Jonson  pictures  a  lady  and 
her  lover  exchanging  confidences  from  the  top- 
most windows  of  opposite  tenements — "arguing 

14 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

from  different  premises,"  as  Dr.  Holmes  would 
say.  There,  too,  were  the  shops,  looking  more 
like  booths  in  a  fair,  with  their  quaint  and  pic- 
turesque signs,  and  their  merchandise  exposed 
to  public  gaze  on  open  stalls,  while  in  front  of 
them  paced  the  young  apprentices,  besieging 
the  ears  of  every  passer-by  with  their  ceaseless 
clamor  of  "What  d'ye  lack?"  and  their  long- 
winded  recommendations  of  the  articles  which 
they  had  for  sale.  In  Middleton's  "Michaelmas 
Term"  we  have  a  scene  before  Quomodo's  shop, 
and  Quomodo  himself  calling  out  to  Easy  and 
Shortyard:  "Do  you  hear,  sir?  What  lack 
you,  gentlemen  ?  See,  good  kerseys  and  broad- 
cloths here — I  pray  you  come  near."  Many 
other  passages  of  similar  import  might  be  added. 
Nor  were  these  the  only,  or  even  the  noisiest, 
symptoms  of  commercial  enterprise.  Itinerant 
vendors  of  the  Autolycus  tribe  also  patrolled  the 
streets,  murdering  the  Queen's  English,  like 
their  descendants  of  to-day,  as  in  loud,  hoarse 
voices  they  advertised  their  miscellaneous  wares. 
There  were  fishwives,  orange-women,  and  chim- 
ney-sweeps, broom-men,  hawkers  of  meat  pies 
and  pepper,  of  rushes  for  the  floor,  of  mats, 
oat-cakes,  milk,  and  coal;  and  numerous  Irish 
costermongers  (of   the   kind   Face  refers  to  in 

15 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

''The  Alchemist")  who  trafficked  in  fruit  and 
vegetables.  In  addition  to  all  these,  and  to 
complete  the  confusion  of  the  streets,  there  were 
mountebanks,  jugglers,  and  ballad-singers,  full 
of  strange  tricks  and  new  songs,  whereby  to 
attract  attention  and  pick  up  a  few  odd  coins. 

The  daily  round  of  existence  in  the  city  streets 
offered,  therefore,  no  small  amount  of  interest 
and  variety;  while  from  time  to  time  the  ordinary 
routine  was  broken  in  upon  by  fresh  elements 
of  excitement.  Now  it  might  be  a  splendid 
procession  —  perhaps  of  one  of  the  great  livery 
companies,  purse-proud  and  ostentatious;  per- 
haps of  the  newly-installed  Lord  Mayor,  on  his 
way  back  from  Westminster;  perhaps  of  the 
Virgin  Queen  and  her  retinue,  coming  cityward 
on  some  state  occasion  from  Richmond  or  White- 
hall. Now,  again,  it  might  be  a  procession  of  a 
very  different  kind — a  mob  following  a  thief  who 
was  going  to  be  put  into  the  pillory,  or  a  woman 
of  disreputable  character  who,  meeting  the  fate 
dreaded  by  Doll  Common,  was  carted  through 
the  streets  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  brass  band, 
and  amid  the  cries  and  hootings  of  the  populace; 
or  a  group  of  felons  who  were  led  out  of  the  city 
along  Holborn  to  Tyburn,  there  to  pay  the  last 
penalty  of  the  law.     Sometimes,  too,  there  were 

16 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

large  gatherings  in  St.  Paul's  churchyard  to  hear 
some  famous  preacher — like  Bishop  Jewell  — 
discourse  from  the  steps  of  the  great  cross;  and 
sometimes  there  were  street  fights  between  re- 
tainers of  rival  houses,  or  bands  of  hot-tempered 
'prentices  belonging  to  the  different  city  guilds  — 
fights  which  generally  ended  in  bloodshed  and 
broken  heads.  The  'prentices  of  the  city  were 
indeed  notoriously  a  turbulent  tribe,  and  they 
figure  in  many  a  brawl  and  squabble  in  the  plays 
of  the  time.  "If  he  were  in  London,  among  the 
clubs,  up  went  his  heels  for  striking  of  a 'pren- 
tice," says  Gazet,  in  Massinger's  "Renegado," 
referring  in  this  phrase  to  the  fact  that  clubs  were 
habitually  kept  in  the  shops  ready  for  use  in  the 
event  of  any  affray.  So  that  the  London  streets 
were  not  so  dull  as  one  might  at  first  suppose; 
while  for  the  rest  there  was  plenty  of  quiet,  steady 
activity  from  dawn  till  dusk.  Though  the  strug- 
gle for  wealth  was  not  then  so  keen  as  it  is  to-day, 
and  men  on  the  whole  took  things  more  easily, 
life  was  full  of  earnestness  and  purpose,  and 
commercial  ambition  shared  the  magnificent 
vigor  and  energy  of  the  Elizabethan  nature  with 
the  fever  of  adventure  and  a  youthful,  spontane- 
ous, and  unabashed  delight  in  the  pleasures  of 
sense.    Wide  roads  were  open  to  the  young  man 

17 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

of  brains  and  courage,  roads  which  would  lead 
to  place  and  power.  Fortunes  were  to  be  made, 
positions  won;  and  the  'prentice,  starting  out  in 
his  career,  had  many  examples  of  self-made  and 
successful  men  to  remind  him  that  the  world  was 
all  before  him  where  to  choose,  and  that  the 
future  largely  depended  upon  himself.  Thus, 
though  the  London  of  Shakspere's  time  was  far 
different  from  the  London  of  to-day  as  regards 
its  commerce,  its  activities,  its  habits  and  daily 
life,  it  was  still  a  thriving  city,  the  object  of  ambi- 
tion, the  dreamland  of  the  aspiring  youth,  the 
great  heart  which  set  the  blood  pulsing  and 
dancing  through  all  the  arteries  of  the  land. 

As  for  the  shops  themselves,  we  must  dismiss 
them  with  a  very  few  words.  The  modern  diffi- 
culty —  the  importation  of  foreign  wares,  and  the 
immigration  of  foreign  dealers — was  already  to 
the  front;  and  Italian,  French,  German,  Spanish, 
and  Flemish  tradesmen  were  to  be  found  in 
almost  every  street — each  with  his  peculiar  class 
of  custom.  Some  writers  of  the  time,  like  Wil- 
liam Stafford,  in  his  "Brief  Conceit,"  grow  vio- 
lent over  the  inroads  of  these  aliens,  and  roundly 
proclaim,  with  Bishop  Hall,  that  all  the  vice  of 
the  city  was  to  be  laid  at  their  doors.  But  in  the 
ordinary  walks  of  business  the  Englishman,  in 

18 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

spite  of  a  good  deal  of  characteristic  bluster  and 
grumbling,  still  held  his  ground.  The  apothe- 
cary sold  love-charms  and  philters,  tobacco, 
cane,  and  pudding,  as  well  as  drugs;  but  there 
were  regular  tobacco  merchants,  also,  whose 
shops  were  of  unrivalled  splendor.  The  immense 
vogue., of  this  novel  luxury  is  sufficiently  shown 
by  the  statement  made  by  Barnaby  Riche  in 
"The  Honesty  of  this  Age,"  that  seven  thou- 
sand shops  in  London  "vented"  tobacco,  and 
by  the  passing  remark  of  Hentzner,  that  it  was 
smoked  (or  "drunk,"  as  the  phrase  then  went) 
everywhere.  At  the  theatre  and  all  such  places 
of  public  resort,  the  pipe  was  the  Englishman's 
habitual  companion,  and  from  sundry  passages 
in  Jonson,  Dekker,  Marston,  and  other  drama- 
tists, we  infer  that  it  was  sometimes  carried  even 
to  church. 

Among  the  most  noteworthy  of  the  tradesmen 
of  the  time  were  the  barbers,  who,  be  it  remem- 
bered, were  surgeons  as  well,  and  would  cut  your 
beard  or  bleed  you,  trim  your  hair  or  pull  out 
your  teeth,  with  absolute  impartiality.  Their 
shops  were  the  favorite  resorts  of  idlers,  as  they 
had  been  long  since  in  the  days  of  Lucian;  and 
owing  to  the  immense  attention  then  paid  to  hair 
and  beard,  the  more  accomplished  among  them 

19 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

drove  an  enormous  trade.  Their  garrulity  was 
proverbial.  "Oh,  sir,  you  know  I  am  a  barber 
and  cannot  tittle-tattle,"  says  Dello,  in  Lyly's 
"Midas,"  in  a  scene  which  is  full  of  curious 
information  concerning  the  barbers  of  the  time. 
The  Cutbeard  of  Jonson's  "Silent  Woman,"  is 
another  illustration  in  point.  It  may  be  men- 
tioned, as  an  odd  feature  of  their  establishments, 
that  a  lute  was  commonly  kept  in  readiness  for 
the  amusement  of  those  who  might  have  to  wait 
for  attention,  as  the  newspapers  and  comic  week- 
lies are  kept  to-day.  "Barbers  shall  wear  thee 
on  their  citterns,"  says  Rhetias  to  Coculus,  in 
Ford's  "Lover's  Melancholy,"  referring  to  the 
grotesque  figureheads  by  which  these  instruments 
were  often  decorated. 

In  the  matter  of  the  relations  of  sellers  and 
purchasers,  we  may  note,  as  one  of  those  little 
touches  of  nature  which  make  the  whole  world 
kin,  that  customers,  as  we  learn  from  more  than 
one  old  play,  often  indulged  in  the  quite  modern 
practice  of  having  half  the  goods  in  a  shop  laid 
out  for  inspection  before  buying  the  most  trum- 
pery article.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  were  the 
dealers  of  the  time  much  behind  their  descend- 
ants of  to-day  in  what  are  known  as  the  tricks  of 
trade.     Adulteration  was  a  crying  evil;  some  of 

20 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

the  methods  often  employed,  for  example,  for  the 
"  sophistication "  of  tobacco,  will  be  recalled  by- 
all  readers  of  ''The  Alchemist."  Another  com- 
mon practice  among  shopkeepers  was  that  of 
darkening  their  stores  to  disguise  the  inferiority 
of  their  merchandise.  This  is  constantly  referred 
to  by  contemporary  writers.  The  sturdy  Stubbs 
attacks  the  abuse  in  his  "Display  of  Corrup- 
tions." "They  have  their  shops  and  places 
where  they  sell  their  cloth  very  dark  and  ob- 
scure," he  writes,  referring  to  the  mercers  and 
drapers  of  his  time,  "of  purpose  to  deceive 
buyers."  Webster,  in  "The  Duchess  of  Main," 
employs  this  familiar  abuse  in  the  turn  of  a  com- 
pliment: "This  darkening  of  your  worth  is  not 
like  that  which  tradesmen  use  in  the  city;  their 
false  lights  are  to  rid  bad  wares  off; ' '  and  Quo- 
modo,  in  "Michaelmas  Term,"  boasts,  humanly 
enough,  that  his  shop  is  not  "so  dark  as  some  of 
his  neighbors'."  Again,  Brome,  in  the  "City 
Wit "  :  "  What  should  the  city  do  with  honesty  ? 
Why  are  your  wares  gummed?  Your  shops 
dark?"  In  "Westward  Ho"  we  read  that  the 
shop  of  a  linen-draper  was  generally  ' '  as  dark  as 
a  room  in  Bedlam,"  and,  not  to  multiply  quota- 
tions, Middleton,  in  "Anything  for  a  Quiet  Life," 
speaks   of  shopwares  being   habitually  "set   in 

21 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

deceiving  lights."  Colliers,  too,  were  so  noto- 
rious for  short  measure  and  other  crafty  practices 
that  Greene,  in  his  ' ( Notable  Discovery  of  Cos- 
enage,"  includes  a  special  "  delightful  discourse" 
on  purpose  to  lay  bare  their  knavery. 

The  houses  were  not  yet  numbered,  and  all 
trading  establishments  were  known  by  their 
tokens — great  signboards  decorating  every  shop 
with  strange  mottoes  and  fantastic  devices,  which 
took  the  place  of  the  advertising  media  of  the 
present  day.  Milton,  we  remember,  was  born 
at  the  Spread  Eagle,  in  Bread  Street,  and  well 
on  in  the  eighteenth  century  the  imprints  of 
publishers  still  refer  to  these  customary  signs;  as 
in  the  case  of  the  famous  "left-legged  Tonson," 
who  did  business  at  "Shakespeare's  Head,  over 
against  Catherine  Street,  in  the  Strand."  Quo- 
tations illustrative  of  these  trading  tokens  and 
the  part  they  played  in  the  commercial  life  of  the 
time  might  be  indefinitely  multiplied;  but  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  a  single  bit  of  evi- 
dence from  "The  Alchemist."  Abel  Drugger, 
the  young  tradesman,  is  opening  a  new  shop,  and 
comes  to  Subtle  to  take  his  advice  about  the 
choice  of  a  suitable  device.  In  the  one  sug- 
gested by  Subtle,  Jonson  satirizes  the  wildly 
absurd   combinations  frequently  employed,  like 

22 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

the  foolish  advertisements  of  our  own  century,  to 
attract  or  compel  public  attention:  — 

"  He  shall  have  a  bel,  that 's  Abel; 
And  by  it  standing  one  whose  name  is  Dee, 
In  a  rug  gown,  there 's  D  and  Rug,  that 's  drug; 
And  right  anenst  him  a  dog  snarling  Er  — 
There 's  Drugger,  Abel  Drugger — there's  his  sign.'* 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  though  these 
signs  have  practically  disappeared  from  general 
use,  they  survive  in  trademarks  and  in  the  odd 
and  often  outlandish  trading  tokens  still  to  be 
seen  over  the  doors  of  English  public  houses 
and  inns;  though  just  why  public  houses  should 
have  kept  up  a  practice  otherwise  almost  univer- 
sally abandoned  since  the  numbering  of  houses 
came  into  vogue,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 

But  with  the  oncoming  of  the  night,  silence, 
for  the  most  part,  fell  over  the  city  and  its  sur- 
roundings. There  was  as  yet  no  public  lighting 
of  the  streets,  but  the  good  citizens  were  sup- 
posed to  do  their  individual  shares  towards  illu- 
minating the  dark  thoroughfares,  to  insure  which 
the  watchmen,  with  lanterns  and  halberts,  would 
pace  their  solemn  rounds,  hoarsely  bawling  at 
every  doorway,  "Lantern  and  a  whole  candle- 
light! Hang  out  your  lights  here!"  Writing 
from  Paris  in  1620,  and  referring  to  the  terrible 

*3 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 


condition  of  the  streets  in  the  French  capital, 
Howell  says:  "This  makes  one  think  often  of 
the  excellent  nocturnal  government  of  oar  city  of 
London,  where  one  may  pass  and  repass  securely 
all  hoars  of  the  night,  if  he  gives  good  words 
to  the  watch."  Yet  it  is  to  he  feared  that  this 
patriotic  comment  puts  the  matter  in  a  somewhat 
too  favorable  way.  The  impression  one  derives 
from  reading  the  plays  and  pamphlets  of  die 
time  certainly  is  that  the  roads  were  always  more 
or  less  dangerous  after  dark,  and  that  good,  law- 
abiding  townsfolk  were  best  off  within  doors,  or, 
at  all  events,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
their  own  houses.  If  they  were  forced  to  go 
farther  afield,  they  would  do  well  to  take  a  link- 
boy  with  them  to  guide  them  with  his  light,  unless 
they  were  like  Falstan;  who,  as  we  remember, 
once  told  Bardolph  that  he  been  saved  a  thousand 
marks  in  links  and  torches  walking  between 
tavern  and  tavern,  owing  to  the  fiery  and  lumi- 
nous character  of  the  said  Bardolph' s  nose.  A 
stout  'prentice  boy  with  a  well-weighted  club 
was  a  desirable  companion,  too,  for  those  who 
valued  purses  and  pates.  For  the  streets  were 
infested  by  "roaring  boys"  and  wild  young 
bloods,  whose  principal  amusement;  besides 
fighting  among  themselves,  was  in  persecuting 

24 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

quiet  citizens,  and  who  came  into  almost  nightly 
conflict  with  the  doting  old  Dogberry  watchmen, 
who  endeavored  to  cope  with  them,  often  with 
but  very  slight  success.  These  are  the  fine  fel- 
lows described  in  Shirley's  "Gamester," — 

"that  roar 
In  brothels,  and  break  windows,  fright  the  streets, 
And  sometimes  set  upon  innocent  bell-men  to  beget 
Discourse  for  a  week's  diet," 

and  whom  Jonson's  Kastril  looked  up  to  with  so 
much  admiration  and  respect. 

I  could  not  hope  by  any  series  of  thumbnail 
sketches  to  conjure  up  the  manifold  details  of  the 
daily  life  of  Elizabethan  London  as  one  finds  it 
portrayed  in  the  plays  of  Jonson,  Middleton, 
Dekker,  Cooke,  and  the  strange  pamphlets  of 
Nash  and  Greene.  But  we  must  not  linger  over 
these  street  scenes.  It  is  ample  time  that  we 
should  pass  on  to  consider  a  little  the  various 
classes  which  went  to  make  up  the  population  of 
the  metropolis  in  the  days  of  which  we  speak. 

In  the  common  relationships  of  class  with  class 
the  age  of  Elizabeth  differed  widely  from  our 
own.  Sociability  was  one  of  the  main  charac- 
teristics of  the  time,  and  this  the  guild  life  of  the 
larger  towns  did  much  to  foster.     In  the  places 

25 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

of  common  resort — in  the  tavern,  the  theatre,  at 
St.  Paul's  Walk,  or  the  Archery  Ground  at  Fins- 
bury,  men  daily  met  their  neighbors  and  brother- 
citizens,  and  rubbed  shoulders  and  chopped 
opinions  with  a  warmth  and  open-heartedness 
which,  if  they  had  little  of  modern  propriety, 
also  knew  little  of  modern  restraint.  Moreover, 
London  was  not  then  the  vast,  overgrown,  inco- 
herent city  which  it  has  since  become,  and  its 
inhabitants  still  took  that  personal  interest  in  one 
another's  doings,  and  felt,  to  some  extent  at  any 
rate,  that  sense  of  family  sympathy  which,  though 
they  are  common  traits  of  provincial  town  life, 
are  characteristic  of  the  metropolis  no  longer. 
Nevertheless,  the  classes  remained  absolutely 
distinct,  cut  off  from  one  another  by  chasms 
of  custom  and  interest,  and  even  law,  which  were 
never,  save  with  the  rarest  exceptions,  bridged 
over.  The  enactments  which  had  been  promul- 
gated at  the  beginning  of  the  reign  to  fix  with 
rigid  certainty  the  special  garbs  of  the  various 
ranks  of  the  community,  are  sufficient  to  show  to 
what  extent  the  caste  system,  with  its  attendant 
prejudices  and  conventions,  was  still  rooted  deep 
in  English  life.  The  young  'prentice  might 
haply  make  a  fortune,  and  reach  a  position  of 
great  civic  distinction.     This  much  was  open  to 

26 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

him;  but  for  his  helpmeet  in  life  he  looked  no 
higher  than  his  master's  daughter.  The  success- 
ful merchant  might  even  reach  the  Lord  Mayor's 
bench,  but  he  was  still  a  citizen,  and  laid  no  claim 
to  set  his  foot  within  the  charmed  circle  of  gentle 
life.  This  condition  of  things  is  illustrated  again 
and  again  in  the  plays  of  the  time,  as  in  Middle- 
ton's  "City  Madam"  and  Dekker's  "Shoe- 
maker's Holiday."  There  was  practically  no 
overlapping  of  interests,  no  intermingling  of  class 
with  class.  Money  could  do  much,  but  it  could 
not,  as  it  will  at  present,  purchase  an  entrance 
into  the  most  select  society;  nor,  in  the  matri- 
monial market  of  that  day,  was  a  coronet  ever 
knocked  down  for  a  dower.  But  this  is  only 
one  side  of  the  question.  If  there  was  little 
class  sympathy,  there  was  little  class  rivalry  also. 
Society  was  more  diffuse  than  it  is  to-day — held 
together  less  firmly,  but  with  less  of  the  friction 
which  is  a  necessary  preliminary  to  that  readjust- 
ment of  social  arrangements  which  the  industrial 
movements  of  the  modern  world  are  tending 
slowly  to  bring  about.  The  classes  touched  ex- 
ternally, but  that  was  all.  In  spirit  they  stood 
aloof —  each  content  to  go  its  own  way,  to  live 
its  own  life,  but  each,  for  the  most  part,  equally 
ready  to  let  the  others  freely  do  the  same. 

27 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

Of  the  various  classes  which  went  to  the  mak- 
ing of  the  population  of  Shakspere's  London, 
two  only  will  here  demand  attention — the  gentry 
and  the  citizens.  Of  course,  within  both  of  these 
great  groups  there  were  many  grades,  but  time 
will  not  allow  us  to  subdivide.  Of  course,  too, 
beyond  and  outside  these  altogether,  lay  the 
seething  mass  of  miscellaneous  humanity — the 
vast  fringe  of  the  population — which  then,  as 
now,  formed  so  dark  and  so  dangerous  an  unab- 
sorbed  element  in  the  city's  general  life.  Threads 
from  this  dingy  and  tangled  social  frilling  were 
sometimes  caught  up  and  woven  for  picturesque 
purposes  into  the  pattern  of  the  plays  of  the 
time.  But  the  epic  of  the  submerged  tenth  was 
as  yet  undreamed  of;  and  all  this  side  of  Eliza- 
bethan civilization  must  for  the  present  be  left 
out  of  view. 

The  citizens  lived  for  the  most  part  at  their 
shops  or  places  of  business;  the  gentlefolk  were 
more  distributed.  Some  still  had  their  habita- 
tions in  the  commercial  portions  of  the  city,  and 
those  of  them  who  regularly  lived  in  the  country 
and  came  to  town  during  term-time — which 
then  constituted  the  London  season, — were  often 
content  to  find  temporary  lodging  over  some 
druggist's  or  barber's  shop.     But  the  exodus  of 

28 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

the  gentry  and  courtiers  from  the  centres  of  trade 
and  labor  was  already  beginning,  and  the  aristo- 
cratic neighborhoods  were  admittedly  outside 
the  walls.  In  "Greene's  Tu  Quoque"  when 
Lionel  Nash  is  knighted,  he  delivers  up  his  store 
to  his  head  'prentice,  and  announces  his  inten- 
tion of  moving  the  next  day  into  the  Strand; 
which  may  be  taken  as  showing  that  for  the 
retired  tradesman, — and  still  more,  therefore,  for 
the  gentleman  or  courtier, — a  residence  well 
removed  from  the  city  was  deemed  the  proper 
thing. 

It  is  difficult  to  speak  in  general  terms  of  the 
houses  of  the  time,  since,  naturally  enough,  the 
comfort  and  luxury  of  the  domestic  arrangements 
varied  considerably  as  one  passed  up  or  down 
the  social  scale.  A  few  broad  statements  may, 
however,  be  made.  In  the  average  dwelling  the 
ceilings  were  covered  with  plaster  of  Paris,  and 
the  inner  walls  wainscoted  and  tapestried;  the 
tapestry  being  worked  with  landscapes  and  fig- 
ures often  of  a  very  elaborate  character.  This 
explains  Lyly's  simile  in  "Midas" — "like  arras, 
full  of  device."  Enough  space  was  left  for  any 
one  to  hide  between  the  arras  and  the  wall — a 
fact,  it  will  be  remembered,  frequently  made  use 
of  by  the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  as  by  Webster 

29 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

in  "The  Duchess  of  Main,"  where  Cariola  con- 
ceals herself  behind  the  hanging  to  overhear 
what  goes  on  between  the  Duchess  and  Antonio; 
and  by  Shakspere  in  "Henry  the  Fourth," 
where  Falstaff  goes  to  sleep  and  has  his  pocket 
picked;  and  even  more  notably  in  the  famous 
rat-killing  scene  in  "Hamlet."  In  addition, 
pictures  were  often  used  for  decoration,  and  when 
valuable  were  protected  by  curtains.  "I  yet  but 
draw  the  curtain;  now  to  the  picture,"  says 
Monticelso  in  Webster's  "White  Devil";  and, 
again,  "We  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show  you 
the  picture,"  says  Olivia  in  "Twelfth  Night,"  as 
she  removes  her  veil.  The  halls  were  lighted  by 
candelabras  or  torch-bearers,  and  watch-lights,  or 
night-lights,  were  in  common  use.  At  the  foot 
of  the  master's  bed,  rolled  under  during  the  day 
and  drawn  out  at  night,  was  a  truckle-bed  for  his 
page.  ' '  Well,  go  thy  ways  for  as  sweet  a  breasted 
page  as  ever  lay  at  his  master's  feet  in  a  truckle- 
bed,"  says  Dondolo  in  Middleton's  "More  Dis- 
semblers Besides  Women."  The  tables  had 
flaps,  and  the  floors  were  strewn  with  rushes,  for 
carpets  were  as  yet  unknown.  These  rushes  were 
renewed  for  fresh-comers.  "Strangers  have 
green  rushes,  while  daily  guests  are  not  worth  a 
rush,"  says   Lyly,  in  "Sapho  and   Phao" — a 

30 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

remark  in  which,  by  the  way,  we  are  reminded  of 
the  origin  of  one  of  our  familiar  phrases.  Brick 
was  costly,  and  the  buildings  were  mostly  of 
wood;  but  a  new  fashion  was  just  coming  in  — 
that  of  employing  well-constructed  stoves  in  place 
of  the  open,  smoky  fireplaces  hitherto  general. 
The  houses  were  now,  too,  provided  with  glass 
for  the  windows,  which  had  not  been  the  case  a 
hundred  years  before,  horn  or  wicker  lattice- work 
having  been  used  for  the  purpose.  But  this 
new  notion  was  opposed  by  William  Stafford, 
who  saw  in  it  the  symptom  of  growing  fondness 
for  what  he  contemptuously  called  foreign  nick- 
nacks.  Chimneys,  too,  of  which  some  years 
before  there  had  been  a  few  specimens  only  in 
every  large  town,  were  now  general  in  the  ordi- 
nary dwellings  of  the  middle  classes.  The  old 
wooden  platters  were  giving  way  to  pewter, 
which,  though  still  rare,  was  gradually  coming 
into  use.  Tin  spoons  also  were  making  their 
appearance.  China,  gold,  and  silver  plate  were 
to  be  seen  on  the  tables  of  the  wealthy,  and 
Venetian  glass  was  sometimes  employed,  though, 
as  this  was  very  expensive,  many  people  still 
drank  from  their  mugs  of  burnt  stone.  Instead 
of  the  straw  bundle  and  log  on  which  people 
had    formerly  been    content    to    sleep,    proper 

3i 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

sheets,  pillows,  and  bolsters  were  now  employed; 
not,  however,  without  incurring  the  ridicule  or 
the  wrath  of  lovers  of  the  good  old  times  and 
moralists  of  severe  complexion.  "What  makes 
us  so  weak  as  we  now  are?"  demands  Sir  Lio- 
nel, in  "Greene's  Tu  Quoque,"  abusing  the 
new  generation  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  hale  old 
man.  "A  feather  bed!  What  so  unapt  for  exer- 
cise? A  feather  bed!  What  breeds  such  pains 
and  aches  in  our  bones?  Why,  a  feather  bed!" 
Yet  houses  were  so  scantily  furnished  that  unin- 
vited or  unexpected  guests  often  used  to  bring 
their  own  stools  with  them,  a  practice  referred 
to  by  Massinger  in  his  "Unnatural  Combat," 
where  he  speaks  of  those  who,  "like  unbidden 
guests,  bring  their  own  stools."  Many  of  the 
household  arrangements,  especially  in  the  way 
of  sanitation,  were  from  our  own  point  of  view 
still  crude  and  primitive  enough.  But  the  age 
of  Elizabeth,  as  regards  domestic  economy  gen- 
erally, was  distinctly  a  period  of  progress,  and 
we  have  only  to  compare  the  sixteenth  century 
with  the  centuries  which  went  before,  to  sympa- 
thize with  old  Harrison,  when,  dealing  with  this 
very  matter,  he  exclaims  in  a  kind  of  fervent 
rapture — "  God  be  thankt  for  his  good  gifts!" 


32 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

Turning  from  the  houses  themselves  to  the 
home  life  of  the  time,  we  may  notice  that  in  the 
establishments  of  the  ancient  nobility  the  arrange- 
ments were  still  on  a  large  and  almost  regal 
scale,  savoring  yet,  in  spite  of  the  slow  move- 
ments conspicuous  throughout  society,  of  the 
feudalism  which  was  now  on  the  wane,  and  the 
old  customs  which,  in  an  age  of  transition,  were 
gradually  being  left  behind.  In  the  greater 
households  a  number  of  young  gentlemen  of 
good  family,  usually  the  younger  sons  of  knights 
and  esquires,  continued  to  offer  personal  service 
as  in  former  days.  Beneath  these  were  the 
retainers,  so-called,  who,  not  living  in  the  house 
or  being  liable  to  any  menial  duty,  attended  their 
lord  on  occasions  of  public  ceremony;  while,  in 
the  third  place,  there  were  the  servants  proper, 
who  formed  actual  portions  of  the  establishment, 
and  on  whom  its  various  duties  devolved.  These 
were  headed  by  the  steward,  under  whose  con- 
trol was  the  common  herd  of  serving  men  and 
women  and  pages.  With  these  must  be  reck- 
oned the  poor  tutor,  passing  rich  on  five  marks 
a  year,  who  sat  below  the  salt,  and,  as  Hall's 
satire  shows,  had  to  endure  all  kinds  of  indig- 
nity. And,  finally,  there  was  the  jester,  the 
privileged    personage   of    the    household,  who 

33 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

could  say  and  do  things  on  which  no  one  else 
would  venture.  "There  is  no  slander  in  an 
allowed  fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail," 
says  Olivia  in  ' '  Twelfth  Night ' ' ;  while  the  mel- 
ancholy Jaques,  speaking  of  his  desire  to  assume 
the  motley  dress,  protests:  — 

"  I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please;  for  so  fools  have." 

Thus  the  jester  was  able  to  find  in  his  wit  and 
position  an  excuse  generally,  though  not  invari- 
ably, sufficient  to  cover  every  freedom  taken  with 
master  or  guests.  But  in  Shakspere's  time  this 
ancient  and  long-famous  appurtenance  to  the 
larger  households  was  already  passing  out  of 
existence,  a  fact  to  which  the  dramatist  himself 
makes  reference  in  "As  You  Like  It"  :  "  Since 
the  little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the 
little  foolery  that  wise  men  have  makes  the 
greater  show." 

But  when  we  pass  from  these  huge  and  osten- 
tatious establishments  to  the  dwellings  of  the 
middle  and  trading  classes,  we  find  the  transi- 
tional character  of  the  period  far  more  marked. 
Evidences  of  domestic  development  and  improve- 
ment   reveal    themselves   on   every  side.     The 

34 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

essential  traits  of  medievalism  were  gradually- 
disappearing;  and  with  the  steady  realization  on 
the  part  of  the  commercial  elements  in  the  com- 
munity of  their  increasing  importance  in  the 
complex  life  of  the  time,  there  went  many  signifi- 
cant changes,  indicating  the  slow  collapse  of  the 
old  regime  and  the  consolidation  of  society  upon 
its  modern  foundations. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  internal  policy  and  ar- 
rangement of  the  Elizabethan  household  there 
was  still  much  that  would  strike  a  present-day 
observer  as  remarkable — for  the  older  spirit  still 
made  itself  felt,  though  ancient  forms  were  pass- 
ing away.  For  instance,  the  relations  existing 
between  the  head  of  the  house  and  those  about 
him  and  dependent  upon  him,  if  no  longer  what 
they  were  a  hundred  years  before,  had  not  yet 
begun  to  assume  their  distinguishing  modern 
characteristics.  The  position  of  servant,  'pren- 
tice, or  journeyman  still  partook  of  a  certain 
suggestion  of  servitude,  which  it  has  required 
many  years  of  social  evolution  to  wear  partially 
away.  Our  nineteenth-century  notion  of  con- 
tract based  upon  terms  something  like  equal,  at 
least  in  theory, — of  so  much  money  paid  in 
return  for  such  and  such  services  rendered, — 
had   not  yet  established   itself;    and  while  the 

35 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

understanding  between  employer  and  employed 
was  gradually  acquiring  more  and  more  of  a 
commercial  quality,  it  had  not  by  any  means  lost 
all  its  personal  implications.  The  'prentices  of 
the  time,  for  example,  were  something  more  and 
something  less  than  those  occupying  analogous 
positions  in  our  own  days.  They  belonged  to 
the  establishment,  lived  with  their  master,  ate  at 
his  table,  formed  part  of  the  family;  yet  at  the 
same  time  wore  coats  of  blue  —  the  color  which 
everywhere  symbolized  servitude,  and  even  con- 
stituted, as  we  know  from  "The  City  Madam" 
and  other  plays,  the  livery  of  Bridewell.  They 
not  only  were  their  master's  assistants  in  the 
work  of  the  shop;  they  furnished  him  also  a 
kind  of  body-guard,  or  retinue, —  for  on  occa- 
sions when  he  had  to  make  excursions  after  dark 
they  went  with  him,  bearing  torches  or  lanterns 
to  light  the  way,  and  stout  clubs,  for  use  in  case 
of  sudden  assault.  But  the  personal  character 
of  such  relationships  is  perhaps  most  fully  shown 
in  the  fact  that  masters  and  mistresses  dealt  out 
corporal  punishment  to  their  servants,  a  univer- 
sal practice,  which,  as  Chamberlayne  tells  us  in 
his  "Survey,"  was  expressly  sanctioned  by  law. 
In  Heywood's  "English  Traveller,"  young  Ger- 
aldine  accounts  for  the  circumstance  that  Bess, 

36 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

Mrs.  Winscott's  maid,  tells  slanderous  stories 
about  her,  by  the  supposition  that — 

"Perhaps  her  mistress 
Hath  stirred  her  anger  by  some  word  or  blow, 
Which  she  would  thus  revenge." 

In  the  establishments  of  the  gentry,  the  porter's 
lodge  was  the  recognized  place  for  the  corporal 
punishment  of  servants,  male  and  female,  a  fact 
to  which  many  references  will  be  found  in  the 
contemporary  drama;  as,  for  instance,  in  Shirley's 
"Grateful  Servant"  and  "Triumph  of  Peace," 
and  Massinger's  "Duke  of  Milan"  and  "The 
City  Madam."  Indeed,  the  whole  domestic 
economy  of  the  time  still  exhibited  much  of  the 
semi-patriarchal  character  of  former  centuries, 
when  those  in  authority  not  only  exacted  due 
service  from  the  men  and  maidens  beneath  them, 
but  held  it  also  as  part  of  their  paternal  respon- 
sibility to  educate  and  chastise. 

As  for  the  children,  they  too  were  far  differ- 
ently situated  from  the  boys  and  girls  of  the 
present  day.  There  was  as  yet  no  talk  of  the 
rights  of  childhood,  and  household  law  was  rigid 
and  severe.  At  school  the  rudiments  of  knowl- 
edge were  pounded  into  young  brains  by  sheer 
force  of  arm;  and  when  the  children  went  from 
the    schoolhouse    to    the    home,    they  merely 

37 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

exchanged  one  form  of  despotism  for  another. 
In  every  well-ordered  family,  the  young  people 
habitually  stood  or  knelt  in  the  presence  of  their 
elders,  not  venturing  to  sit  down  without  express 
permission;  while  correction  by  blows  continued 
to  be  their  lot  so  long  as  they  remained  under  the 
parental  roof  and  control.  Even  the  children 
of  the  wealthiest  and  noblest  families  in  the  land 
were  subjected  to  the  same  kind  of  treatment; 
and  we  know  that  in  their  early  years  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  Lady  Jane  Grey  had  been  pinched 
and  cuffed  and  smacked  like  their  less  famous 
sisters.  All  this  has  been  changed  now,  and  we 
have  grown  in  some  respects  wiser,  in  others 
simply  more  sentimental.  Yet,  with  whatever 
feelings  we  may  look  back  at  the  harshness  of 
the  past,  let  us,  at  all  events,  have  the  candor  to 
acknowledge  that  the  discipline  which  produced 
men  like  Sidney  and  Raleigh  and  Spenser,  and 
women  like  the  two  just  referred  to,  cannot  be 
pronounced  altogether  a  failure. 

And  now  a  word  or  two  about  some  of  the 
every-day  habits  of  the  time.  Among  the  middle 
classes,  as  a  whole,  the  ancient  doctrine  of  early  to 
bed  and  early  to  rise,  upon  which  Charles  Lamb 
threw  such  well-merited   ridicule,  was  currently 

38 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

accepted,  and  this  almost  of  necessity.  Artificial 
lights  were  as  yet  in  little  use,  and  being  thus 
more  dependent  upon  the  natural  alternations  of 
day  and  night,  the  good  folks  under  the  Virgin 
Queen  inevitably  kept  better  hours  than  do  the 
Londoners  of  the  present  time.  In  Dekker's 
"Shoemaker's  Holiday,"  the  master  shoemaker 
is  depicted  roundly  rating  his  wife  and  maids  for 
their  laziness  in  not  having  breakfast  ready,  and 
his  anger  seems  at  least  a  trifle  excessive  to  the 
modern  Cockney,  since  it  subsequently  turns  out 
that  it  is  not  yet  seven  o'clock.  In  reading  the 
old  comedies,  we  are  again  and  again  struck  by 
the  complementary  facts  that  the  activities  of  life 
were  well  advanced  while  the  day  was  still  young, 
and  that  few  scenes  of  a  social  character  are  laid 
in  the  evening  time. 

As  regards  eating,  important  as  the  subject 
doubtless  is,  we  need  not  say  much.  Comparing 
the  Elizabethan  age  with  the  immediate  past,  we 
may  safely  assert  that  men  were  more  temperate 
now  than  they  had  been — that  they  fed  less 
grossly,  and  spent  less  time  at  table.  But  the 
abstemiousness  was,  after  all,  only  relative,  ft 
was  still,  from  our  point  of  view,  a  period  of  glut- 
tony. The  early  breakfast  of  meat  and  ale;  the 
morning  luncheon,  or  bever;  the  twelve-o'clock 

39 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

dinner,  with  its  exceedingly  substantial  fare;  and, 
finally,  in  the  evening,  what  Don  Armado,  in 
"  Love's  Labor's  Lost,"  described  as  "the  nour- 
ishment which  is  called  supper," — all  these  made 
up  a  series  of  gastronomic  undertakings  at  which 
we  can  look  back  only  with  mingled  amazement 
and  disgust.  The  staple  articles  of  diet  were 
the  various  kinds  of  meat,  which  were  partaken 
of  in  immense  quantities,  with  but  little  bread 
and  only  a  limited  accompaniment  of  vegetables. 
But  almost  as  important  as  the  meats  was  the 
pudding,  for  which  the  English  had  acquired  so 
great  a  reputation  that  a  contemporary  foreigner 
fairly  goes  into  a  transport  of  enthusiasm  about 
it.  The  worst  feature  of  all  was  the  enormous 
consumption  of  intoxicating  liquors.  Tea,  coffee, 
and  cocoa — those  delightful  cups  that  cheer  but 
not  inebriate,  for  which  we  moderns  can  hardly 
be  too  thankful  —  were  as  yet  unknown  in  Eng- 
land; and,  in  their  absence,  every  meal  was 
washed  down  with  mighty  draughts  of  ale  and 
sack.  Testimony  to  the  drunkenness  of  the 
English  at  this  time  is  appalling,  whether  we  turn 
to  the  plays  themselves,  or  to  the  writings  of  pro- 
fessed moralists,  such  as  Camden's  " Elizabeth, " 
Reeve's  "  God's  Plea  for  Nineveh,"  Tryon's 
"Way  to   Health,"  Dekker's  "Seven   Deadly 

40 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

Sins,"  Wither's  "Abuses  Stript  and  Whipt," 
and  Thomas  Young's  "England's  Bane,"  which 
may  be  mentioned  as  specimens  of  a  voluminous 
output  of  similar  character.  No  wonder  that,  as 
Iago  and  Hamlet  remind  us,  the  English  people 
had  become  a  byword  for  inebriety  among  the 
nations  of  the  continent. 

It  must,  however,  be  added,  as  one  favorable 
sign  of  the  times,  that  table  manners  were,  on 
the  whole,  distinctly  improving.  Bad  as  they 
still  were  in  many  important  particulars,  a  change 
for  the  better  was  quite  perceptible.  For  in- 
stance, people  thought  it  incumbent  on  them 
now  to  wash  before  and  after  dinner,  a  ceremony 
all  the  more  needful,  as  fingers  were  still  com- 
monly used  where  we  use  forks,  '  ■  the  laudable 
use"  of  which,  as  Jonson  has  it,  came  in  towards 
the  close  of  Shakspere's  life;  and  generally  a 
certain  amount  of  delicacy  in  what  Ouida  has 
pronounced  the  essentially  disgusting  operation 
of  eating,  was  for  the  first  time  beginning  to  be 
looked  for,  at  any  rate  amongst  those  in  the 
higher  ranks  of  society. 

Hardly  less  important  in  social  economy  than 
eating  is  dress,  which  in  turn  demands  a  share  of 
our  attention.  Unfortunately,  however,  it  is  im- 
possible in  the  small  space  here  at  our  disposal 

4i 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

to  give  any  adequate  idea  of  the  extent,  variety, 
and  extravagance  of  the  fashions  prevalent  dur- 
ing the  period  with  which  we  are  now  dealing, 
and  which  form  a  curious  offset  to  the  crudities 
we  have  noticed  in  household  furniture  and 
appliances.  Harrison,  in  his  "Description  of 
England,"  declares  that  the  taste  for  change  and 
novelty  had  simply  run  wild;  and  he  and  the 
outspoken  Stubbs  are  never  weary  of  declaring 
that  while  other  nations  have  their  own  special 
extravagances,  the  English  gather  up  and  adopt 
the  follies  of  all  the  rest  of  Europe.  Here  is 
a  passage  from  another  contemporary  writer, 
Thomas  Becon,  on  the  same  subject:  "I  think 
no  realm  in  the  world,  no,  not  among  the  Turks 
and  Saracens,  doth  so  much  in  the  variety  of 
their  apparel  as  the  Englishmen  do  at  this  pres- 
ent. Their  coat  must  be  made  after  the  Italian 
fashion,  their  cloak  after  the  use  of  the  Spaniards, 
their  gown  after  the  manner  of  the  Turks;  their 
cap  must  be  of  the  French  fashion;  and  at  the 
last  their  dagger  must  be  Scottish  with  a  Vene- 
tian tassel  of  silk.  To  whom  may  the  English- 
man be  compared  worthily,  but  to  Esop's  crow? 
For  as  the  crow  decked  himself  with  feathers  of 
all  kinds  of  birds,  even  so  doth  the  vain  English- 
man.  .  .   .   He  is  an  Englishman;  but  he  is  also 

42 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

an  Italian,  a  Spaniard,  a  Turk,  a  Frenchman,  a 
Scotch,  a  Venetian,  and  at  last  what  not?" 

This  is  only  a  sample;  passages  of  similar  im- 
port might  be  multiplied  almost  without  number. 
The  fashions  of  the  day  were  indeed  absurd  and 
extravagant  to  the  last  degree.  Richness  and 
picturesqueness  were  the  two  things  aimed  at 
alike  in  male  and  in  female  costume;  and  in  both 
cases  the  colors  were  as  brilliant  as  the  stuffs 
were  costly.  The  following  speech  of  Sir  Glo- 
rious Tipto,  in  Jonson's  "New  Inn,"  will  give 
some  idea  of  the  run  of  masculine  modes,  as 
seen  by  the  vigorous  old  satirist:  — 

"I  would  put  on 
The  Savoy  chain  about  my  neck,  the  ruff 
And  cuffs  of  Flanders;  then  the  Naples  hat 
With  the  Rome  hatband  and  the  Florentine  agate, 
The  Milan  sword,  the  cloak  of  Genoa,  set 
With  Brabant  buttons — all  my  given  pieces, 
Except  my  gloves,  the  natives  of  Madrid." 

Over  against  such  a  strange  human  specimen  as 
is  thus  pictured  in  the  imagination,  we  may  well 
set  the  women  of  the  time,  as  painted,  rouged, 
highly  scented,  bejewelled,  bewigged,  in  French 
hoods,  starched  Cambric  ruffs,  close-fitting  jer- 
kins, and  embroidered  velvet  gowns,  they  look 
down  upon  us  from  the  walls  of  many  an  Eliza- 

43 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

bethan  house,  and  fill  the  busy  scene  in  many  a 
contemporary  play.  Women,  Lyly  thought — 
so  far  had  the  artifices  of  the  toilet  carried 
them, —  were  in  reality  the  least  part  of  them- 
selves. Some  of  their  freaks  of  fashion  in  par- 
ticular drew  down  the  ire  alike  of  the  playwright 
and  of  the  more  serious  satirist.  One  was  the 
habit  of  painting  the  face,  so  frequently  referred 
to  by  Shakspere  and  others.  A  second  was 
the  very  common  practice  of  wearing  false  hair, 
treated  at  length,  along  with  nearly  all  similar 
extravagances  of  the  period,  by  the  irrepressible 
Stubbs.  Every  reader  of  Shakspere  will  recall 
the  passage  from  Bassanio's  moralizings  on 
"outward  shows,"  in  which  this  fashion  is 
alluded  to:  — 

"Look  on  beauty, 
And  you  shall  see  't  is  purchased  by  the  weight; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it; 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre;" 

and  the  parallel  lines  in  the  sixty-eighth  sonnet, 
in  which  the  same  point  is  touched  on,  with 
striking  similarity  of  phrasing.     The  "golden" 

44 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

color  of  the  locks,  here  specially  emphasized, 
it  may  be  noted  in  passing,  was  particularly 
popular,  on  account  of  the  reddish,  or,  as  her 
flatterers  would  insist,  the  golden,  hue  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  head-gear.  Finally,  a  great  deal  was 
said  about  the  altogether  needless  and  reprehen- 
sible extravagance  shown  in  certain  small  details 
of  dress.  We  may  take  the  one  item  of  foot- 
covering  as  an  example.  Herein  all  the  worst 
taste  of  the  day  was  illustrated;  for  shoes  were 
made  of  the  most  expensive  materials,  and  were 
frequently  covered  with  artificial  flowers  and 
other  kinds  of  decoration.  Thus,  Massinger,  in 
"The  City  Madam,"  speaks  of  rich  "pantofles 
in  ostentation  shown,  and  roses  worth  a  family" ; 
while  Stubbs,  in  his  "Anatomy  of  Abuses,"  re- 
fers to  shoes  "embroidered  with  gold  and  silver 
all  over  the  foot." 

Yet,  upon  the  whole,  truth  compels  us  to 
admit  that,  if  we  are  to  trust  contemporary  evi- 
dence, mascdine  fashions  exceeded  in  wildness, 
absurdity,  and  monstrous  barbarity  those  of  the 
other  sex.  "Women  are  bad,  but  men  are 
worse," — such  is  the  distinct  judgment  of  Bur- 
ton, in  his  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy";  and 
while  we  know  from  the  speculative  Jaques  that 
"the  city  madam,"  would  sometimes  bear  "the 

45 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders,"  Burton 
again  is  our  authority  for  the  statement  that  it 
was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  man  to  put  a  thou- 
sand oxen  into  a  suit  of  apparel,  and  to  wear  a 
whole  manor  on  his  back. 

I  mentioned  incidentally  just  now  that  class 
distinctions  were  severely  marked  out  by  differ- 
ences in  costume.  Certain  sumptuary  enactments 
promulgated  about  this  time  undertook  to  regu- 
late down  to  the  minutest  details  what  should  and 
what  should  not  be  worn  by  the  various  classes 
of  the  community,  wealth  and  social  standing 
being  taken  together  as  the  basis  on  which  to 
settle  the  problems  of  the  toilet  and  personal 
adornment.  But  within  the  limits  allowed  by 
such  regulations,  and  sometimes  even  irrespective 
of  them  (for  grandmotherly  legislation  here  as 
always  stood  foredoomed  to  failure),  extrava- 
gance in  fashion  remained  throughout  one  of  the 
salient  characteristics  of  the  day.  The  dress 
of  the  citizen  and  his  wife,  if  less  elegant,  was 
equally  showy,  and  sometimes  quite  as  expen- 
sive, as  that  of  the  man  of  mode  and  the  woman 
of  the  court;  and  so  it  was  through  all  grades 
of  society,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  or, 
as  Harrison  put  it  in  his  vivid  phrase,  from  the 
courtier  to  the  carter. 

46 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

While  we  are  still  concerned  with  this  item  of 
dress  it  is  amusing  to  notice  that  three  hundred 
years  ago  people  were  to  be  found  worrying  their 
tailors  and  abusing  their  dressmakers  as  it  is  the 
custom  to  do  at  the  present  day.  We  might 
quote  illustrations  from  more  than  one  comedy; 
but  let  us  once  more  fall  back  upon  Harrison. 
"How  many  times,"  says  this  quaint  old  writer, 
' '  must  a  garment  be  sent  back  to  him  that  made 
it?  What  chafing,  what  fretting,  what  reproach- 
ful language  doth  the  poor  workman  bear  away. 
.  .  .  For  we  must  puff  and  blow  and  sweat  till 
we  drop,  that  our  clothes  may  stand  well  upon 
us."  As  we  read  such  a  passage  as  this  in  its 
original  strange  old  spelling  (which,  for  the  sake 
of  uniformity,  we  have  not  here  reproduced),  we 
have  surely  to  acknowledge  —  though  it  goes 
much  against  the  grain  to  do  so  —  that  our 
manners  have  at  bottom  changed  less  than  our 
orthography. 

And  now  we  must  leave  the  ranks  of  the  citi- 
zens and  trading  folks  to  deal  for  a  moment  or 
two  with  the  more  fashionable  world. 

The  society  of  the  time,  to  employ  the  word 
which  in  modern  parlance  has  assumed  a  highly 
specialized  meaning,  was  artificial  to  an  absurd 

47 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

and  almost  inconceivable  extent.  Affectations, 
indeed,  made  up  the  larger  part  of  life;  and  yet 
beneath  them  all  were  a  core  of  sound  reality  and 
a  healthy  element  of  spontaneity.  Euphuism 
and  Italianism  had  for  the  time  being  taken  full 
possession  of  the  whole  aristocratic  world.  Yet 
euphuism  and  Italianism  were  but  external 
crazes;  and  it  was  one  mission  of  the  age  to 
show  that  men  could  be  heroes  in  the  foolishest 
dress,  and  do  great  deeds  with  the  most  ridicu- 
lous of  phrases  upon  their  lips.  We  could  not 
here  enter  upon  the  task  of  analyzing  the  life 
and  aims  of  the  men  and  women  who  surrounded 
the  Queen  at  her  court;  but  as  an  offset  to  the 
steady-going  middle  classes  of  whom  we  have 
had  much  to  say,  we  must  try  to  present,  if  only 
in  rapidly  sketched  outline,  the  typical  Eliza- 
bethan gallant,  or  fashionable  young  man  about 
town,  as  we  find  him  portrayed  for  us  in  the 
plays  and  pamphlets  of  the  time. 

The  accomplishments  of  the  young  man  of 
this  description  were  numerous  and  varied 
enough;  but  they  were  all  in  keeping  with  the 
character  of  the  perfect  gentleman  as  set  forth 
by  Castiglione  in  his  ' '  Cortegiano, ' '  a  work 
which  had  been  translated  by  Thomas  Hoby  in 
1 561,  and  had  forthwith  become  a  kind  of  text- 

48 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

book  or  Bible  for  the  youthful  fashionable  world. 
He  could  dance,  sing,  and  play  the  viol  de 
gamba;  fence,  ride,  and  hunt;  write  verses,  turn 
pretty  compliments,  and  take  his  part  in  the 
exchange  of  witty  repartees,  stocking  his  mem- 
ory with  scraps  of  plays  and  stories,  lest  his 
own  mother-sense  should  fail  him.  He  could 
read  the  three  languages  of  Portia's  summary 
of  requirements  in  which  Falconbridge  was 
lacking — Latin,  French,  and  Italian, — and  was 
perfectly  at  home  in  what  Jonson  calls  the 
"perfumed  terms  of  the  day";  he  had  some 
acquaintance  with  the  poets  in  vogue;  played 
cards,  tennis,  and  other  fashionable  games,  as  a 
matter  of  course;  and,  last  but  not  least,  was 
learned  in  all  matters  connected  with  the  drama, 
etiquette,  and  dress. 

These  were  not  great  qualifications;  but  such  a 
young  man  had  little  need  of  great  qualifications, 
since  he  had  no  great  aims  or  ideals.  Let  us 
read  over  his  every  day's  experiences  and  doings 
as  we  find  them  given  in  Dekker's  "Gull's  Horn 
Book"  and  other  similar  productions,  and  this 
statement  will  call  for  no  further  commentary. 

He  was  not  an  early  riser — for,  wearied  with 
his  overnight  exertions,  he  scarcely  ever  left  his 
couch   till  the  plebeian   Londoner  was  already 

49 


UN 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

thinking  seriously  about  his  midday  meal.  Then 
began  the  first  important  task  of  the  day  —  the 
toilet,  which  was  so  elaborate  a  matter  that  Lyly, 
in  his  "Midas,"  speaks  of  its  being  almost  "a 
whole  day's  work  to  dress."  But  when  at  length 
he  stood  erect  in  his  scented  doublet  and  gold- 
laced  cloak,  with  the  roses  in  his  shoes,  the 
bunch  of  toothpicks  in  his  hat,  the  watch  hung 
about  his  neck,  his  earrings,  and  his  sword,  he 
was  ready  to  partake  of  a  breakfast  of  meat  and 
ale  with  such  appetite  as  he  could  muster  for  the 
occasion,  and  then,  jumping  on  his  horse,  with 
his  page  and  horse-boy  behind  him,  to  sally  forth 
tipon  the  regular  adventures  of  the  day. 
*  Curiously  enough,  as  it  may  well  seem  to  us, 
his  first  place  of  resort  would  very  probably  be 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  One  may  well  ask  what 
object  could  possibly  take  him  thither.  The 
answer  lies  in  the  fact  that  St.  Paul's  Church  in 
those  days  was  the  great  place  of  rendezvous  for 
all  the  gay  and  fashionable  world.  "  Thus,"  says 
Dekker,  "doth  my  middle  aisle  show  like  the 
Mediterranean  Sea,  in  which  as  well  the  mer- 
chant hoists  sails  to  purchase  wealth  honestly 
as  the  rover  to  light  upon  prize  unjustly.  Thus 
am  I  like  a  common  mart,  where  all  the  com- 
modities (both  the  good  and  the  bad)  are  to  be 

50 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

bought  and  sold.  Thus,  while  devotion  kneels 
at  her  prayers,  doth  profanation  walk  under  her 
nose,  in  contempt  of  religion. ' '  Francis  Osborne, 
writing  as  late  as  1658,  says  that  it  was  a  fashion 
of  the  times  for  the  principal  gentry,  lords,  com- 
mons, and  professions,  to  meet  in  St.  Paul's 
Church  by  eleven,  and  walk  in  the  middle  aisle 
till  twelve,  and  after  dinner  from  three  till  six, 
* '  during  which  time  some  discourse  of  business, 
others  of  news."  Many  bustling  scenes  in  the 
old  comedies  are  laid  in  this  same  middle  aisle, 
where,  amid  bills  posted  as  advertisements,  and 
crowds  of  servants  looking  out  for  places,  of 
sharpers,  like  Jonson's  Shift,  with  a  keen  eye  for 
prey,  and  of  loafers,  with  nothing  else  to  do,  all 
sorts  of  people  strolled  about,  with  their  hats  on, 
chatting,  laughing,  and  discussing  finance  or  pol- 
itics or  scandal,  till  the  whole  place  was  alive 
with  the  hum  of  voices,  the  rustle  of  raiment, 
and  the  jingle  of  spurs.  "  I  walked  in  St.  Paul's 
to  see  the  fashions,"  remarks  a  character  in  one 
of  Middleton's  plays.  There  Face  threatened 
to  advertise  Subtle' s  misdeeds;  and  it  is  a  matter 
of  common  history  that  Falstafif  picked  Bardolph 
up  in  the  same  spot.  It  was  thus  its  reputation 
as  a  place  of  general  convenience,  and  one  in 
which  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  that  gave  St.  Paul's 

5i 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

the  importance  it  undoubtedly  possessed  in  the 
social  life  of  the  time. 

St.  Paul's  Walk  and  its  varied  interests  would 
keep  our  young  man  cccupied  till  the  hour  of 
dinner,  a  meal  of  which  he  would  probably  par- 
take in  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  the  ordi- 
nary. The  ordinary  —  the  forerunner  of  the 
modern  restaurant  and  table  dy  hSte — was  then  a 
novel  institution,  and  as  such  enjoyed  immense 
popularity  among  the  gilded  youth.  Three 
grades  were  commonly  recognized — the  aris- 
tocratic ordinary,  for  which,  to  judge  from  a 
remark  in  Middleton's  "  Trick  to  Catch  the  Old 
One,"  about  two  shillings  would  be  charged; 
the  twelvepenny  ordinary,  frequented  by  trades- 
men, professional  people,  and  middle-class  citi- 
zens; and  the  threepenny,  to  which  flocked  only 
the  lowest  and  most  questionable  characters. 
The  first-named  of  the  three,  Dekker  tells  us, 
was  the  great  resort  of  all  the  court  gallants. 
There  friends  and  acquaintances  met,  ate,  gos- 
siped, laughed,  and  not  infrequently  quarrelled, 
together;  there  braggarts,  like  Lafeu  in  " All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,"  "made  vent  of  their 
travel";  there  the  latest  intelligence  was  circu- 
lated, the  latest  scandal  discussed,  the  latest  fads 
of  fashion  displayed  in  all  their  grotesqueness. 

52 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

A  good  picture  of  the  ordinary  during  the  din- 
ner hour  will  be  found  in  the  twelfth  chapter  of 
Scott's  "Fortunes  of  Nigel";  but  the  genuine 
atmosphere  is  best  caught  in  such  a  contem- 
porary piece  of  writing  as  the  "Gull's  Horn 
Book." 

Dinner  over,  with  its  customary  game  of  pri- 
mero,  there  were  many  ways  in  which  our  gallant 
could  kill  time.  There  was  the  theatre,  with  its 
more  intellectual  attractions;  the  bull-ring  and 
the  cockpit;  the  juggler's  booth  and  the  tennis- 
court;  the  shops  along  Cheapside  and  about  St. 
Paul's,  among  which  the  connoisseur  in  letters, 
jewellery,  and  kickshaws  would  find  it  easy 
enough  to  while  away  an  afternoon.  But  how- 
ever he  might  pass  the  hours  between  dinner 
and  supper,  he  would  probably  appear  in  full  time 
for  the  latter  meal,  for  which  he  might  repair  to 
"The  Devil,"  in  Fleet  Street,  or  "The  Mitre," 
in  Cheap,  or  "The  Mermaid,"  in  Bread  Street; 
at  which  last-named  place  he  might  peradventure 
catch  snatches  of  the  conversation  and  laughter 
of  a  little  group  of  men  in  one  corner,  among 
whom  we  should  recognize,  though  he  might 
not,  the  burly  form  and  surly  face  of  rare  old 
Ben,  and  the  serene  countenance  and  deep,  clear 
eyes  of  one  who  is  more  to  all  of  us  to-day  than 

53 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

any  other  Englishman  who  ever  lived — Will 
Shakspere,  playwright  and  actor.  After  that 
would  not  improbably  follow  the  wildest  episodes 
of  the  day,  which  likely  enough  would  end  in 
deep  carousal  behind  the  flaming  red  doors 
of  a  tavern,  or  at  the  gambling-table,  or  even  in 
more  doubtful  places  of  resort.  When  in  Hey- 
wood's  "Wise  Woman"  old  Chartley  is  looking 
for  his  son,  he  bids  his  servants  "  inquire  about 
the  taverns,  ordinaries,  bowl-alleys,  tennis-courts, 
and  gaming-houses,  for  there  I  fear  he  will  be 
found,"  a  direction  which  gives  us  a  fair  idea  of 
the  favorite  haunts  of  the  young  men  of  the  day. 
Gambling  particularly,  in  all  its  forms,  was  one 
of  the  prevalent  manias  of  the  time,  and  was 
often  carried  to  such  an  extent  that  men  would 
stake  their  very  clothes,  and  even  their  beards, 
which  might  be  used  to  stuff  tennis-balls.  In 
"Greene's  Tu  Quoque"  will  be  found  a  won- 
derfully realistic  scene  of  a  quarrel  following  a 
dispute  over  the  cards  and  dice,  and  ending  in  a 
challenge  for  a  duel.  Then  when  the  time  came 
for  him  to  reel  homeward  through  the  darkness 
with  one  sleepy  page  to  light  his  way  with  a 
torch,  our  gallant  would  be  either  uproariously 
cheerful,  or  contentious,  or  maudlin,  as  his  habit 
might  be  when  in  his  cups.      He  would  bellow 

54 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

out  loose  songs  upon  the  night  air,  molest  strag- 
gling by-passers,  come  sometimes  into  conflict 
with  the  watch,  and  once  in  a  while,  when  luck 
went  against  him,  might  find  himself  lodged  for 
the  night  in  one  of  the  prisons  of  the  metropolis. 
So  the  day  would  end;  and  with  it  must  close 
this  part  of  our  study.  But,  after  all,  very  inade- 
quate justice  can  be  done  to  such  a  theme  in  so 
brief  and  rapid  a  sketch.  We  must  go  straight 
to  the  pages  of  Dekker,  Greene,  Nash,  and  Peele, 
if  we  would  gain  any  adequate  conception  of  the 
wilder  aspects  of  Elizabethan  social  life. 

In  such  a  paper  as  the  present,  there  is  always 
danger  lest  the  final  impression  left  should  be,  if 
not  a  false,  at  any  rate  an  inadequate  one;  for  the 
temptation  is  strong  to  seize  only  the  picturesque 
traits,  and  to  pay  such  undue  attention  to  group- 
ing, color,  and  general  effect,  that  we  fail  in  pre- 
serving proper  perspective,  and  throw  portions 
of  our  description  into  unnatural  relief.  The 
risk  of  doing  this  is,  of  course,  increased  when, 
as  in  our  own  case,  we  take  the  point  of  view 
of  the  playwright  and  the  popular  writer,  and 
study  the  world  of  men  and  affairs  mainly 
through  the  medium  of  their  pages.  I  trust 
none  the  less,  that  we  have  not  erred  on  the  side 

55 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

of  painting  life  in  Shakspere's  London  in  too 
bright  or  seductive  colors.  Yet,  to  tone  down 
our  picture,  let  us  say  a  closing  word  about  its 
darker  aspects;  for  these  were  many,  and  they 
were  very  dark  indeed. 

As  Mr.  Swinburne  has  pointed  out,  one  of  the 
most  difficult  problems  meeting  the  student  of 
the  Elizabethan  drama,  is  that  of  reconciling  the 
elements  of  lofty  thought  and  gross  passion,  of 
high  idealism  and  coarse  savagery,  which  lie 
so  close  together,  which  are  indeed  bound  up 
inextricably,  in  the  very  woof  and  texture  of  the 
plays  of  Shakspere's  time.  The  literature  of  the 
stage  shows  us  with  startling  distinctness  how  in 
the  world  of  the  playwright  there  frequently  went, 
along  with  the  deepest  and  most  original  thought 
a  revolting  ferocity  of  manners,  and  along  with 
a  lofty  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  the  pure  a 
crude  love  of  violence,  a  revelling  in  blood,  a 
thirst  for  wanton  outrage  and  low  excitement. 
All  these  diverse  elements  are,  separately,  prom- 
inent enough  in  modern  letters,  as  in  modern 
civilization;  what  seems  so  strange  and  puzzling 
in  our  great  romantic  drama  is  the  way  in  which 
they  constantly  blend  in  the  most  intimate  asso- 
ciation. 

Now,    these    extraordinary    incongruities  are 

56 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

not  alone  to  be  found  in  the  world  of  the  play- 
wright; they  penetrated  the  life  of  Elizabethan 
society.  To  some  phases  of  the  coarse  brutal- 
ism  which  formed  one  aspect  of  the  complex 
spirit  of  the  English  Renaissance  incidental  ref- 
erence has  more  than  once  been  made.  Did 
space  permit,  we  might  here  add  much  corrobo- 
rative testimony.  But  as  space  does  not  per- 
mit, I  will  content  myself  with  accentuating  very 
briefly  the  difference  in  temper  between  the  age 
of  Elizabeth  and  our  own,  as  exemplified  in  one 
very  crucial  matter — in  the  treatment  of  the 
large  criminal  class. 

We  who  are  privileged  to  live  in  an  epoch 
of  growing  humanity  may  well  be  startled  and 
shocked  at  many  of  the  facts  brought  to  light 
by  even  a  casual  inquiry  in  this  direction. 
Executions,  be  it  remembered,  were  almost  inva- 
riably public,  and  formed,  as  we  have  seen,  not 
infrequent  distractions  in  the  monotonous  round 
of  life.  Felons  were  hanged,  drawn,  and  quar- 
tered; pirates  were  hanged  on  the  seashore  at 
low  water;  and  capital  punishment  was  in  use  for 
an  enormous  number  of  petty  offences,  including 
even  theft  from  the  person  above  the  value  of 
one  shilling.  The  mere  circumstance  that  we 
read  of  seventy-four  persons  being  sentenced  to 

57 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

death  in  one  county  in  a  single  year,  itself  speaks 
volumes.  Indeed,  the  severity  of  punishments 
was  held  something  to  boast  of,  and  men  were 
still  of  the  opinion  of  Fortescue,  who,  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  had  proudly  proclaimed 
that  "more  men  are  hanged  in  England  in  one 
year  than  in  France  in  seven,  because  the  Eng- 
lish have  better  parts."  Public  malefactors  of 
position  were  usually  beheaded,  and  their  heads 
exposed  in  prominent  places,  as  on  London 
Bridge  or  Temple  Bar.  On  the  tower  of  the 
former,  Hentzner  "counted  above  thirty"  placed 
"on  iron  spikes."  *  Witches  were  burnt  alive; 
a  horrible  fate  also  reserved  for  women  who 
killed  their  husbands,  which  crime  stood  on  the 
statute-books  not  as  murder,  but  as  petty  trea- 
son. Heretics,  too,  were  frequently  burnt.  Per- 
jury was  punished  by  the  pillory  and  branding, 
and  rogues  and  vagabonds,  irrespective  of  age 
and  sex,  were  sent  to  the  public  stocks  and 
whipping-post. 

"In  London,  and  within  a  mile,  I  ween, 
There  are  of  jails  and  prisons  full  eighteen, 
And  sixty  whipping-posts,  and  stocks,  and  cages," 

*  Allusions  to  the  continuance  oi  this  revolting  practice  are 
numerous  as  late  as  the  eighteenth  century.  See,  e.  g.,  Pope's 
"  Essay  on  Man,"  iv.,  251-252,  and  the  famous  anecdote  of  Johnson 
and  Goldsmith  (Boswell,  anno  1773). 

58 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

writes  Taylor,  the  Water  Poet.  Scolds  were 
ducked,  and  many  minor  offences  were  reward- 
ed by  burning  the  hand,  cropping  the  ears,  and 
similar  mutilations.  Finally,  felons  refusing  to 
plead  were  subjected  to  the  peine  forte  et  dure, 
notwithstanding  the  proud  and  oft-repeated  boast 
that  torture  has  always  been  unknown  to  the 
English  law. 

Surely  it  is  needless  for  us  to  go  farther  than 
all  this,  unless  it  be  to  add  the  striking  fact 
that,  despite  such  brutal  severity  in  punish- 
ment, crimes  and  outrages  of  every  description 
remained  alarmingly  common  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  period  with  which  we  have  been 
concerned.  Enough  has  been  said  to  throw  in 
some  of  the  heavier  shadows  necessary  to  com- 
plete the  slight  sketch  we  have  been  trying  to 
furnish  of  the  social  life  and  every-day  manners 
of  Shakspere's  time. 

With  this  as  our  last  word,  then,  we  take  leave 
of  "  the  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth," 
and  become  once  more  denizens  of  our  own 
century.  And  here  it  would  be  easy,  of  course, 
to  fall  into  the  cheap  Macaulay-vein  of  moraliz- 
ing; to  strike  a  contrast  between  present  and 
past,  point  out  all  the  manifold  and  magnificent 

59 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

achievements  of  modern  civilization,  and  end 
with  rhetorical  rhapsodies  over  our  "wondrous, 
wondrous  age."  It  would  be  easy,  I  say,  to  do 
this;  and  I  doubt  not  that  it  would  be  effective. 
But  when  in  my  study  of  the  literature  of  any 
bygone  generation  I  make  myself  at  home  for  a 
time  among  dead  things  and  long-forgotten  peo- 
ple, I  do  not,  I  must  confess,  find  myself  in  any 
mood  for  brass-band  celebrations.  The  feeling 
left  with  me  is  a  vaguer  and  sadder  one.  For, 
as  I  turn  back  into  our  own  world,  I  remember 
that  this  past  was  once  verily  and  actually  the 
present;  that  these  dead  things,  these  long- 
forgotten  people,  were  once  intensely  alive;  that 
the  tragedy  and  the  comedy  of  existence  went 
on  then  as  it  goes  on  to-day;  and  that  in  the 
breasts  of  men  and  women  fashioned  like  our- 
selves beat  human  hearts,  after  all,  very  like  our 
own.  Hope  and  disappointment,  joy  and  de- 
spair; the  memory  of  yesterday,  the  expectation 
of  the  morrow;  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the 
spirit;  the  lust  of  the  eye;  the  pride  of  life;  the 
"ancient  sorrow  of  man," — all  that  goes  to 
make  up  the  sum  total  of  our  little  earthly  lot, — 
was  their  portion,  too,  as  it  will  presently  be  the 
portion  of  the  countless  generations  by  which 
we  in  our  turn  shall   be  replaced.    And  thus, 

60 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

musing,  I  think  of  the  nameless  young  men  and 
maidens  of  that  dim,  far-off  age,  who  repeated 
the  sweet  old  story  of  love,  as  their  fathers  and 
mothers  had  done  before  them,  as  their  distant 
descendants  do  to-day,  while  there  was  confusion 
in  high  places,  and  storm  and  struggle  about 
the  land.  I  think  of  the  tears  that  were  shed 
as  gentle  hearts  broke  in  anguish;  of  the  brave 
deeds  wrought;  of  the  tales  of  the  faith  of  sturdy 
manhood  and  the  trust  of  womanly  devotion, 
which  will  never  be  retold.  I  think  of  the  lives 
that  ran  their  placid  course;  of  the  children  that 
came  as  years  went  by,  bringing  "hope  with 
them  and  forward-looking  thoughts  " ;  of  mothers 
weeping  over  empty  cradles;  of  tiny  graves,  long 
since  obliterated,  where  many  a  bright  promise 
found  "its  earthly  close."  I  think  of  lives  that 
were  successful,  and  of  lives  that  were  failures; 
of  prophecies  unfulfilled;  of  splendid  ambitions 
realized  only  to  bring  the  inevitable  disillusion; 
of  sordid  aims  accomplished;  of  vile  things  said 
and  done.  The  whole  dead  world  seems  to 
take  form  and  flesh  in  my  imagination;  the  men 
and  women  start  from  the  pages  of  the  book  I 
have  been  reading — a  mad  world,  my  masters, 
and  a  strange  one;  but  behold,  a  world  singularly, 
almost   grotesquely,  like   our  own.     And  then 

61 


London  Life  in  Shakspere's  Time 

my  thought  takes  a  sudden  spin;  and  this  age 
of  ours  seems  to  slip  some  three  centuries  back 
into  the  past,  and  becomes  weird,  and  phan- 
tasmal, and  unreal.  And  I  find  myself  peering 
across  the  misty  years  into  this  throbbing  world 
of  multitudinous  enterprise  and  activity  from 
the  standpoint  of  an  era  when  you  and  I  will 
be  long  since  forgotten  —  when  no  one  will 
know  how  we  toiled  and  suffered  and  loved  and 
died,  when  no  one  will  care  where  we  lie  at  rest. 
How  curious  to  think  of  it  all  in  this  way!  And 
with  what  tempered  enthusiasms  and  sobered 
judgments  must  we  needs  go  back  to  take  up 
again  the  burden  of  life,  knowing  that  the  deep, 
silent  current  of  time  is  sweeping  us  slowly  into 
the  great  darkness,  and  that  hereafter  the  tale 
will  be  told  of  us  as  it  has  been  told  generation 
after  generation  since  the  world  began :  Lo, 
their  glory  endured  but  for  a  season,  and  the 
fashion  of  it  has  passed  away  forever! 


62 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 


I  HAVE  undertaken  to  talk  to  you  this  evening 
about  a  singular  book  —  a  book  that  holds  a 
place  practically  by  itself  on  our  library  shelves, 
—  the  Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys.*  The  writer  of 
this  book  was  not  a  great  man,  or  a  strong  man, 
or  in  any  way  a  man  of  transcendent  mental  or 
moral  characteristics.  The  work  itself  has  none 
of  those  qualities  by  virtue  of  which  a  piece  of 
literature  will,  in  the  average  of  cases,  be  found 
to  survive  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  changes 
of  fashions  and  tastes.  With  the  acknowledged 
masterpieces  of  autobiographic  narration  —  with 
the  "Confessions"  of  St.  Augustine  or  Rousseau, 

♦  As  the  pronunciation  of  our  diarist's  name  is  often  under 
discussion,  I  subjoin,  for  the  reader's  guidance  in  the  matter, 
some  clever  verses,  originally  published  a  few  years  ago  in  the 
London  "  Graphic  "  :  — 

"  There  are  people,  I  'm  told,— some  say  there  are  heaps,— 
Who  speak  of  the  talkative  Samuel  as  Peeps ; 
And  some,  so  precise  and  pedantic  their  step  is, 
Who  call  the  delightful  old  diarist,  Pepys ; 
But  those  I  think  right,  and  I  follow  their  steps, 
Ever  mention  the  garrulous  gossip  as  Peps !  " 

65 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

for  example,  or  the  "Memoirs"  of  Benvenuto 
Cellini  or  Gibbon,  or  the  ' '  Dichtung  und  Wahr- 
heit"  of  Goethe,  or  the  "Journal"  of  Amiel, 
we  should  never  think  of  comparing  it;  for 
Pepys' s  garrulous  pages  have  no  eloquence, 
no  literary  quality,  no  magic  of  style  —  they 
record  no  intense  spiritual  struggles,  reveal  no 
deep  upheavals  of  thought  and  feeling,  flash  no 
new  light  upon  the  dark  places  or  into  the 
mysterious  recesses  of  motive  and  character. 
What,  then,  is  the  secret  of  Pepys' s  enduring 
fascination  ?  Wherein  lies  the  curious  spell,  the 
undeniable  vitality  of  his  work?  Why  do  we 
continue  to  read  this  chaotic  chronicle  of  his, 
when,  in  the  pressure  of  modern  affairs,  so  many 
books  of  the  past  —  better  books,  wiser  books, 
nobler  books  —  are  left  to  slumber  in  serenity  in 
those  vast  mausoleums  of  genius,  our  public 
libraries,  undisturbed,  all  but  forgotten  ? 

I  say  nothing  now  about  the  historic  value  of 
Pepys' s  journal — for  historic  value  may  have  no 
kind  of  relationship  with  broad  popular  interest; 
and  it  is  with  the  popular  interest,  and  not  with 
the  special  significance  of  the  work  before  us, 
that  we  are  at  present  concerned.  And  therefore 
my  question,  concretely  put,  is  just  this:  How  is 
it  that  you  and  I,  who  may  care  little  or  nothing 

66 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

for  the  information  that  Pepys  gives  us  about  the 
degraded  politics  and  miserable  court  intrigues 
of  the  Restoration,  may  still  find  in  his  daily 
capricious  jottings  a  charm  which,  as  literature 
goes,  is  almost,  if  not  absolutely,  unique? 

For  any  one  who  has  ever  dipped  into  the 
Diary  at  all,  the  answer  to  this  question  is  not  far 
to  seek.  Pepys' s  memoranda  have  lasting  inter- 
est for  us  on  account  of  their  naive  frankness, 
their  plain  and  simple  spontaneity,  their  trans- 
parent honesty  of  self-expression.  As  we  read, 
we  realize  that,  for  once  at  least,  we  are  brought 
into  the  closest,  the  most  vital  contact  with  a 
living  man,  and  that  this  man  speaks  to  us,  who, 
by  the  irony  of  fate,  chance  to  overhear  his  un- 
considered utterances,  without  disguise,  without 
reticence  or  reserve,  of  the  things  which  stand 
nearest  to  his  heart.  The  reader  of  Pepys' s 
Diary  knows  Pepys  himself  better  than  his 
acquaintances  knew  him  at  the  office,  in  the 
coffee-house,  at  the  street- corner;  better  than  his 
friends  knew  him  at  the  social  board,  spite  of  the 
truth  that  there  is  in  wine;  better  even  than  his 
wife  knew  him  in  the  intercourse  of  the  home. 
To  us  he  lays  bare  without  sophistication  or 
guile  thoughts  and  impulses,  desires  and  disap- 
pointments, concealed  from  them   beneath   the 

67 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

conventional  wrappings  of  daily  manners  and 
life  —  personal  criticisms  and  private  experiences 
which,  living,  he  confided  to  none.  Does  this 
strike  you  as  a  small  matter?  Then,  pause  for  a 
moment  and  ask  yourselves  of  what  other  man 
whose  written  words  have  ever  come  into  the 
fierce  white  glare  of  publication  such  statements 
as  these  could  truthfully  be  made  ?  Autobiogra- 
phies, memoirs,  journals,  confessions,  letters  we 
have,  of  course,  without  number,  and  the  value 
of  these  as  human  documents  may  in  most  cases 
be  great,  in  some  cases  inestimable.  But  do  we, 
after  all,  accept  literature  of  this  character  as  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  nothing  but  the  truth? 
Do  we  not  rather  know  that,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  such  literature  must  almost  always  be,  in 
varying  degrees,  forced,  unreal,  overwrought, 
theatrical  ?  The  moment  a  man  begins  to  talk 
about  himself,  the  dramatic  instinct  inevitably 
comes  into  play;  the  least  vain  of  mortals  colors 
his  own  experiences,  the  least  self-conscious 
manipulates  his  motives  and  transfigures  his  feel- 
ings. That  which  we  ought  to  know  best — our 
own  heart — is  precisely  that  which  of  set  pur- 
pose we  are  forever  debarred  from  describing 
with  more  than  an  approximation  to  the  stern 
and  solid  fact.    You  remember  the  famous  words 

68 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

in  which  Rousseau  announced  his  intention  of 
writing  the  plain,  unvarnished  story  of  his  life: 
' '  I  enter  upon  an  undertaking  which  never  had 
an  example,  the  execution  of  which  will  never 
have  an  imitation.  I  desire  to  show  my  fellow- 
creatures  a  man  in  all  the  truth  of  his  nature — 
and  this  man  will  be  myself."  And  with  this 
rhetorical  exordium,  the  great  sentimentalist 
proceeds,  as  Mr.  Lowell  happily  phrased  it,  to 
throw  "open  his  waistcoat,  and  make  us  the 
confidants  of  his  dirty  linen."  The  very  con- 
dition of  deliberate  self-revelation  places  an 
embargo  on  perfect  candor  and  unconsciousness; 
an  autobiographer,  as  George  Sand  said,  always 
makes  himself  the  hero  of  his  own  novel,  even 
if  he  be  a  hero  of  the  dirty  vagabond  type, 
as  in  the  case  just  referred  to.  Here,  then,  is 
the  ultimate  secret  of  Pepys' s  peculiar  charm. 
Beside  him,  Rousseau  is  a  mere  poseur,  and 
the  rest  are  nowhere.  "Is  not,"  asks  Mr.  Low- 
ell "is  not  old  Samuel  Pepys,  after  all,  the  only 
man  who  spoke  to  himself  of  himself  with  per- 
fect simplicity,  frankness,  and  unconsciousness  ?  " 
That  he  should  have  done  this  is  no  trifling 
thing.  He  remains,  seemingly  for  all  time,  "a 
creature  unique  as  the  dodo,  a  solitary  speci- 
men,  to   show  that  it  was   possible  for  nature 

69 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

once   in   the   centuries  to  indulge  in  so  odd  a 
whimsey." 

In  speaking  of  the  difficulties  inherent  in 
autobiographical  writing,  I  lay  stress,  it  will  be 
observed,  on  the  set  purpose,  the  deliberate 
intention,  generally  characterizing  it.  No  small 
part  of  the  secret  of  Pepys' s  success  as  a  diarist 
is  to  be  found  in  the  simple  fact  that  with  him 
the  set  purpose,  the  deliberate  intention,  and  the 
resultant  disturbing  self-consciousness  are  almost 
entirely  absent.  Pepys  did  not  write  for  the 
public  eye,  or  for  any  glance  save  his  own;  he 
recorded  his  impressions  and  enterprises,  his 
pleasures,  anxieties,  ambitions,  aims,  and  passing 
fancies  because  he  found  satisfaction  in  thus 
summing  up  ' '  the  actions  of  the  day  each  night 
before  he  slept" ;  and  not  at  all  because  he  pro- 
posed to  draw  a  full-length  portrait  of  himself 
for  the  benefit  of  his  contemporaries  or  the 
amusement  of  posterity.  It  has  been  suggested 
by  one  of  the  wiseacres  who  can  never  leave  a 
simple  fact  alone,  that  Pepys  regarded  his  Diary 
as  material  towards  a  fully  developed  autobi- 
ography. Possibly  so.  But  we  may  be  certain 
that  had  such  autobiography  ever  been  written, 
the  self-delineation  of  its  pages  would  have  dif- 
fered in  many  important  particulars — in  details 

70 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

put  in,  and  even  more  seriously  in  details  left  out 
— from  that  contained  in  the  journal  itself.  As 
it  is,  we  have  an  odd  and  uncomfortable  sense, 
when  we  first  open  the  Diary,  of  intruding  where 
we  have  no  proper  business,  of  breaking  in  upon 
the  privacy  of  a  man's  life,  and  surprising  him 
in  the  undress  which  he  might  wear  for  himself, 
but  in  which  he  would  not  willingly  be  caught  by 
even  his  closest  friend.  For  remember  that  the 
six  small  volumes  which  contain  the  manuscript 
diary  are  filled  with  densely  packed  short-hand, 
peppered  with  occasional  words  and  phrases 
from  the  French,  Spanish,  Latin,  and  Greek; 
and  that  it  was  only  after  immense  labor  that  the 
script  was  transliterated,  and  the  secrets  which 
poor  Pepys  had,  as  he  fondly  supposed,  buried 
there  forever,  given  to  an  impertinent  and  un- 
sympathetic world.*  Writing  thus  for  himself, 
and  for  himself  alone,  and  guarding  himself  by 
every  means  within  his  power  against  the  possi- 
bility of  exposure,  our  chronicler  was  enabled 

*  A  curious  circumstance  in  connection  with  the  first  reading  of 
the  Diary  is  worth  mentioning.  An  indefatigable  student,  it  is 
said,  toiled  at  its  decipherment  from  twelve  to  fourteen  hours  a 
day  for  the  space  of  three  or  four  years.  All  the  while  — such 
is  the  strange  untowardness  of  earthly  things  — Pepys  had  left 
in  his  library  a  long-hand  transcript  of  his  short-hand  account 
of  Charles  the  Second's  escape,  and  this,  had  it  been  known 
at  the  time,  would  have  served  the  purpose  of  the  required  key. 

71 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

to  make  his  narrative  the  luminous,  because  free 
and  spontaneous,  expression  of  his  innermost 
life.  A  man  may  be  honest  with  himself  in 
cipher  for  whom  long-hand,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  thought  of  subsequent  publication,  would 
bring  the  inevitable  and  fatal  temptations  to 
sophistication.  Could  Pepys  have  foreseen  the 
ultimate  fate  of  his  journal,  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
it  would  never  have  been  written,  or,  once  writ- 
ten, would  have  been  discreetly  burned.  Poor 
fellow !  His  sense  of  complete  security,  of 
inviolable  self-concealment,  made  possible  such 
confidences  as  otherwise  would  never  have  been 
committed  to  paper. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Pepys' s  unreserved  frank- 
ness is  to  be  partially  accounted  for  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  no  fear  lest  any  one  but  himself 
should  ever  read  what  he  found  such  curious 
pleasure  in  writing  down.  Yet  allowance  must 
at  the  same  time  be  made  for  a  deeper  cause,  to 
be  sought  in  an  analysis  of  the  character  of  the 
man  himself.  Plenty  of  people  who  can  write 
short-hand  and  appreciate  the  usefulness  of 
a  diary,  contrive  none  the  less  to  go  through  life 
without  finding  themselves  under  the  imperative 
necessity  of  recording  the  minute  happenings, 
the  petty  annoyances  and  satisfactions,  the  casual 

72 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

meetings,  conversations,  comings  and  goings  of 
the  common  routine  of  existence.  They  may 
enjoy  their  dinner  without  feeling  impelled  at  the 
end  of  the  day  to  make  a  solemn  note  of  the 
fact  and  add  the  bill  of  fare;  they  may  fall  asleep 
during  a  sermon,  and  yet  allow  the  astonishing 
circumstance  to  pass  unrecorded;  they  may  say 
and  do  a  dozen  foolish,  hasty,  and  unnecessary 
things,  and  see  no  cause  to  dwell  upon  them, 
and  perpetuate  them,  when  the  evening  accounts 
are  made  up.  But  the  little  things  of  life  were 
great  to  Pepys,  its  trifles  singularly,  grotesquely 
significant.  He  was  a  man,  it  is  clear,  of  a  curi- 
ously naive  and  garrulous  temper,  a  born  lover 
of  gossip,  even  when  he  was  gossiping  only  of 
and  to  himself,  and  when  some  of  the  matters 
he  found  to  talk  about  did  not  by  any  means 
redound  to  his  credit. 

Mr.  Lowell  somewhere  speaks  of  the  uncon- 
scious humor  of  the  Diary.  This  unconscious 
humor  is,  I  think,  to  be  referred  very  largely  to 
this  extraordinary  naivete;  to  the  irresponsible 
loquacity,  the  love  of  commonplace  and  frivolous 
detail,  which  seem  to  have  been  among  Pepys' s 
most  salient  characteristics,  and  to  his  amazing 
lack  of  any  sense  of  perspective — in  other  words, 
to  his   congenital    inability  to  disentangle  the 

73 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

momentous  from  the  trivial  in  the  complex 
occurrences  of  life.  An  interview  with  the  King, 
a  discussion  with  the  naval  authorities,  the  man- 
ning of  a  ship,  the  arrangements  for  a  war,  were 
serious  matters  to  him;  but  so,  too,  were  the 
purchase  of  a  new  periwig,  the  sight  of  a  pretty 
face  in  the  theatre,  a  specially  succulent  joint  of 
meat  at  the  midday  repast,  a  game  of  billiards 
or  ninepins.  It  is  needful  to  lay  stress  on  these 
personal  qualities,  because  they  are  of  the  very 
essence  of  the  man,  of  the  very  essence  of  the 
Diary.  That  it  should  have  seemed  to  him 
worth  while  to  place  on  record,  if  only  for  his 
own  perusal,  so  many  things  that  most  of  us 
would  give  no  second  thought  to — that  is  the 
point  to  be  noted,  as  one  only  a  little  less  aston- 
ishing than  the  diarist's  odd  plainness  of  dealing 
with  himself.  I  have  said  that  the  use  of  a  cipher 
which  none  of  your  family  or  acquaintances  can 
read,  is  in  itself  a  premium  upon  veracity.  Yet 
Pepys' s  singular,  remorseless  honesty  of  self- 
expression  remains  still  in  the  last  degree  sur- 
prising. The  Diary  is  full  of  confessions  which, 
I  venture  to  think,  you  and  I  would  hardly  feel 
called  upon  to  make,  even  to  ourselves,  so  strong, 
so  irresistible  does  the  dramatic  tendency  become 
in  most  of  us  the  moment  we  begin  to  touch  our 

74 


Pepys  and  His  Diary- 
own  lives.  If  we  are  fond  of  reading,  it  would 
be  natural  to  us,  I  suppose,  to  jot  down  the 
names  of  the  books  we  buy  or  dip  into,  and  any 
criticism  we  may  have  to  make  upon  them;  but 
I  wonder  how  many  of  us  would  think  it  incum- 
bent upon  us  to  commit  ourselves  to  such  an 
entry  as  this? — "To  the  Strand,  to  my  book- 
seller's, and  there  bought  an  idle,  roguish 
French  book,  'L'Escholle  des  Filles,'  which  I 
have  bought  in  plain  binding,  avoiding  the  buy- 
ing of  it  better  bound,  because  I  resolved,  as 
soon  as  I  have  read  it,  to  burn  it,  that  it  may 
not  stand  in  the  list  of  my  books,  nor  among 
them,  to  disgrace  them  if  it  should  be  found." 
A  declaration  like  this  may  strike  us  as  absurdly 
familiar  when  we  light  upon  it,  but  it  takes  a 
Pepys  to  make  it,  after  all;  and  we  therefore  feel 
that  in  the  solemnity  and  precision  with  which 
such  an  experience  is  recorded,  rather  perhaps 
than  in  the  experience  itself,  which  is  neither 
very  important,  nor  very  creditable,  nor  very  sin- 
gular, is  to  be  found  the  key  to  much  that  is  most 
interesting  and  significant  in  the  pages  of  the 
Diary.  Pepys,  for  instance,  quarrels  with  a  cap- 
tain in  the  army,  and  goes  about  in  mortal  dread 
of  possible  consequences.  Thousands  of  men,  I 
dare  say,  have  found  themselves  in  just  such  a 

75 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

predicament;  but  Pepys  makes  a  note  of  the  fact, 
plainly,  straightforwardly,  with  no  pretence  at 
apology  or  self-deception,  with  no  tendency 
towards  heroics.  Again,  he  lies  awake  one  night 
quaking  in  fear  of  robbers,  and  starting  at  every 
sound.  You  and  I  may  have  done  the  same;  but 
I  do  not  imagine  that  our  journals,  if  searched, 
would  contain  any  indication  of  the  fact.  Take 
such  an  entry  as  the  following:  "After  we  had 
dined  came  Mr.  Mallard,  and  I  brought  down 
my  viol.  ...  He  played  some  very  fine  things 
of  his  own,  but  I  was  afraid  to  enter  too  far  into 
their  commendation,  for  fear  he  should  offer  to 
copy  them  for  me  out,  and  so  I  be  forced  to  give 
or  lend  him  something," — and  I  wonder  how 
many  of  us  could  lay  our  hands  on  our  hearts 
and  honestly  say  that  this  presentation  of  motive 
strikes  us  as  remote,  unfamiliar,  alien.  But  while 
we  would  hardly  dare  to  look  a  bit  of  conduct 
of  this  kind  squarely  in  the  face,  Pepys  does  so, 
and  unflinchingly  sets  down  the  not  over-flatter- 
ing results  of  his  observation.  And  he  does 
this  not  because  he  has  the  modern  man's  mor- 
bid love  of  self-analysis,  or  any  of  the  grim 
desire  of  many  a  recent  writer  to  show  himself 
up  as  a  sorry  fellow,  but  simply  because  it  is 
his    habit   all    through   to   report    frankly  and 

76 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

unreservedly  the  various  circumstances  of  his  life, 
withholding  nothing,  adding  nothing,  disguising 
nothing. 

All  this  helps  to  bring  the  essential  naivete  of 
Pepys' s  character  into  high  relief.  He  tears  his 
new  cloak  on  the  latch  of  a  door,  and  is  greatly 
troubled,  though  the  darning  is  successfully  done; 
he  rejoices  when  Mr.  Pierce's  little  girl  draws 
him  for  her  valentine,  because  a  present  to  her 
will  cost  him  less  than  one  to  a  grown-up  per- 
son; he  drinks  large  quantities  of  milk  and  beer, 
and  gets  pains  in  consequence;  he  acts  the  syco- 
phant and  the  tuft-hunter  towards  those  in 
power,  swallowing  his  own  opinions  and  rejoicing 
in  the  success  of  his  diplomacy;  his  appetite  for 
supper  is  taken  away  by  the  sight  of  his  aunt's 
dirty  hands;  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  try  how 
eating  fish  will  suit  him,  before  vowing  to  diet 
himself  in  Lent;  —  and  down  all  such  matters  go 
pell-mell  in  the  Diary.  He  wrangles  with  his 
mother;  breaks  an  oath  never  to  go  to  see  a  play 
without  his  wife;  gets  a  headache  by  drinking 
overmuch  wine;  thinks  he  sees  a  ghost;  rejoices 
to  find  himself  addressed  as  Esquire; — and 
down  go  all  these  things,  too.  He  puts  his 
|  thumb  out  of  joint  boxing  his  footboy's  ears;  in 
a  fit  of  anger  he  tweaks  Mrs.  Pepys' s  pretty 

77 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

nose;  is  "  vext  to  the  heart"  when  Sir  William 
Pen's  page  chances  to  catch  him  kicking  his 
cook-maid,  "because  I  know  he  will  be  telling 
their  family  of  it " ;  —  and  all  these  occurrences, 
once  again,  are  given  due  record  and  chronicle. 
Finally, —  not  to  multiply,  as  one  might  do 
indefinitely,  such  illustrations  of  our  writer's 
singular  simplicity  and  artlessness, — he  even 
notes  being  "mightily  troubled"  with  snoring 
in  his  sleep,  a  statement  which  I  have  reserved 
as  a  kind  of  climax,  since  I  find  the  allegation 
of  snoring  to  be  about  the  last  that  sensitive 
humanity  is  willing  to  bear.  Charge  a  man  with 
theft,  if  you  will;  but,  as  you  value  your  life,  do 
not  suggest  that  he  snores. 

To  this  brief  analysis  of  some  of  the  personal 
peculiarities  upon  which  the  curious  charm  of 
Pepys' s  Diary  so  largely  depends,  it  would  be 
unfair  to  the  writer  not  to  add  mention  of  a 
characteristic  of  a  somewhat  different  order.  If 
a  diarist,  like  a  poet,  is  rather  born  than  made, 
then  justice  compels  us  to  acknowledge  that 
Pepys  was  a  born  diarist — a  man  who,  by  reason 
of  his  strength  and  his  weakness  alike,  was  an 
almost  ideal  chronicler  of  daily  affairs  and  small 
beer.  For  he  possessed  something  more  than 
the  native  garrulousness,  the  itch  to  chatter  and 

78 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

to  tattle,  of  which  we  have  already  said  enough. 
His,  too,  was  another  rare  quality  of  equal 
importance  for  the  success  of  his  chosen  under- 
taking— a  keen,  immense,  tireless  interest  in 
"men,  women,  and  things  in  general."  He  was, 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term,  a  viveur — a  man 
who  made  it  his  business  to  get  the  most  possible 
out  of  existence,  and  who,  as  matters  went  in  his 
day,  touched  the  world  at  an  amazing  variety  of 
points.  Immersed  as  he  was  in  practical  respon- 
sibilities, fond  as  he  was  of  money  and  affairs,  he 
nevertheless  threw  himself  with  the  utmost  avid- 
ity and  ardor  into  the  life  of  his  time,  an  unheroic 
Ulysses,  forever  setting  forth  upon  a  voyage  of 
new  discovery  and  fresh  adventure.  He  loved, 
after  his  own  fashion,  literature  and  painting;  he 
was  a  devotee  of  music  and  an  amateur  of  the 
drama;  and  he  had  the  shrewdest  eye  for  char- 
acter, the  largest  appreciation  of  the  picturesque- 
ness  resulting  from  the  clash  of  motives,  the 
contests  of  opinion  and  feeling,  and  outworkings 
of  ambitions  and  passions  in  the  tragedy  and 
comedy  of  men's  every-day  social  world.  He 
was  indeed,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  said  of  him,  a 
man  of  the  "most  undiscriminating,  unsatiable, 
and  miscellaneous  curiosity."  Although  "ex- 
ceptionally busy  and  diligent  in  his  attendance  at 

79 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

the  office,"  this  same  writer  continues,  "  he  finds 
time  to  go  to  every  play  and  every  execution,  to 
every  procession,  fire,  concert,  riot,  trial,  review, 
city  feast,  public  dissection,  or  picture-gallery 
that  he  can  hear  of.  Nay,  there  seems  scarcely 
to  have  been  a  school  examination,  a  wedding, 
christening,  charity  sermon,  bull-baiting,  philo- 
sophic meeting,  or  private  merrymaking  in  his 
neighborhood  at  which  he  was  not  sure  to  make 
his  appearance,  and  mindful  to  record  all  the 
particulars."  He  had  an  unbounded  love  of 
pleasure,  a  craving  for  new  sensations,  an  inde- 
fatigable courage  in  the  pursuit  of  experience,  a 
versatility  of  euthusiasm  simply  amazing,  an 
industry  in  multitudinous  enterprises  which 
makes  us  breathless  as  we  read.  "He  is  the 
first  to  hear  all  the  court  scandal,  and  all  the 
public  news;  to  observe  the  changes  of  fashions, 
and  the  downfall  of  parties;  to  pick  up  family 
gossip,  and  retail  philosophical  intelligence;  to 
criticise  every  new  house  or  carriage  that  is  built, 
every  new  book  or  new  beauty  that  appears, 
every  measure  the  King  adopts,  and  every  mis- 
tress he  discards."  In  one  sentence  he  will 
report  a  debate  in  Parliament — in  the  next, 
carefully  itemize  the  points  in  a  lady's  dress; 
now  he  is  deeply  concerned  over  the  problems 

80 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

of  the  navy,  and  anon  is  to  be  found  mourning 
the  death  of  a  canary,  or  the  ruin  of  his  fine 
bands,  which  he  has  carelessly  slobbered  with 
chocolate.  Accounts  of  state  crises,  details  of 
court  profligacy,  particulars  of  his  own  matri- 
monial misunderstandings,  literary  criticisms, 
headings  of  sermons,  accounts  of  plays,  disquisi- 
tions on  music  and  finance,  on  dinners  and 
dancing,  and  a  thousand  other  matters,  import- 
ant and  petty,  are  jumbled  together  in  bewilder- 
ing confusion  in  his  pages,  along  with  sketches 
of  character,  bits  of  the  frankest  self-delineation, 
scraps  of  wisdom  and  folly,  keen  judgments  of 
men  and  circumstances,  and  those  notes  of  suc- 
cess and  failure,  of  aspiration,  achievement, 
disappointment,  of  penitence,  and  sometimes  of 
remorse,  which  belong  to  the  true  story  of  his 
inner  life.  Such  is  Pepys' s  Diary — the  record 
of  the  daily  doings  and  feelings  of  a  busy,  rest- 
less, vain,  easy-tempered,  pleasure-loving,  ambi- 
tious, shrewd,  yet  often  fatuous,  man  of  the 
world;  take  it  for  all  in  all,  a  book  without  an 
equal,  almost  without  a  rival,  in  its  class. 

The  author  of  this  extraordinary  book,  despite 
some  rather  aristocratic  connections,  was  the  son 
of  a  not  very  successful  tailor,  and  was  born, 

81 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

perhaps  in  London,  perhaps  in  Brampton,  Hun- 
tingdonshire, (the  point  remains  unsettled,)  on 
23d  February,  1632.  He  seems  to  have  been  at 
one  time  at  school  in  Huntingdon;  but  he  after- 
wards entered  regularly  as  a  scholar  of  St.  Paul's, 
London,  passing  thence,  in  1650,  to  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge.  Of  his  college  career  we 
know  little;  but  we  have  the  record  of  one  inci- 
dent, interesting  as  foreshadowing  the  convivial 
tendencies  which  come  out  so  often  and  so 
strongly  in  the  pages  of  the  Diary.  In  the 
Regents'  Book  of  Magdalene  College  appears 
the  following  highly  suggestive  entry:  — 

"  Oct.  21,  1653.  Mem.  That  Peapys  and  Hind  were 
solemnly  admonished  by  myself  and  Mr.  Hill  for  hav- 
ing been  scandalously  overserved  with  drink  ye  night 
before.  This  was  done  in  the  presence  of  all  the 
fellows  then  resident,  in  Mr.  Hill's  chamber. 

"[Signed]    John  Wood,  Registrar." 

Yet,  notwithstanding  this  episode,  and  what- 
ever it  maybe  taken  to  stand  for  as  an  exemplifi- 
cation of  Pepys' s  way  of  life,  as  an  undergraduate 
he  became  the  good  friend  of  some  of  the  most 
industrious  of  his  contemporaries,  and,  we  have 
reason  to  believe,  acquitted  himself  in  his  own 
studies,  if  not  brilliantly,  still  with  a  very  fair 
measure  of  success.     At  all  events,  he  took  his 

82 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

bachelor's  degree,  in  1653  — tne  verv  Year>  it 
will  be  observed,  of  his  bacchanalian  misadven- 
ture,—  and  received  his  mastership  seven  years 
later.  Meanwhile,  as  we  learn  from  a  passing 
note  in  the  Diary,  made  a  long  while  after,  he 
dabbled  in  literary  composition  to  the  extent  of 
beginning  a  romance,  called  ''Love  a  Cheat." 
The  manuscript  of  this  he  tore  up  and  destroyed 
on  30th  January,  1663,  adding  to  his  chronicle 
of  the  event:  "I  liked  it  very  well,  and  won- 
dered a  little  at  myself,  at  my  vein  at  that  time, 
when  I  wrote  it,  doubting  that  I  cannot  do  so 
well  now  if  I  would  try."  Pepys  may  not  have 
shown  himself  in  every  emergency  of  life  a 
strong  man  or  a  brave;  but  thus  to  sacrifice  the 
first  heir  of  his  invention,  even  on  finding  it,  after 
all,  rather  better  than  he  had  imagined — let  us 
recognize  here  resolution  and  courage  not  by 
any  means  to  be  sneered  at. 

Pepys  was  but  twenty-three  when  he  married 
Elizabeth  St.  Michel,  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl 
of  fifteen,  the  daughter  of  a  Huguenot  who  had 
come  to  England  with  Elizabeth  Maria  on  her 
union  with  Charles  the  First.  Of  the  relations 
of  husband  and  wife  we  shall  have  something  to 
say  by  and  by.  Poor  St.  Michel  was  a  man  of 
countless  resources  and  infinite  ingenuity,  and  in 

83 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

consequence  was  frequently  both  a  burden  to 
himself  and  a  tax  upon  his  friends.  He  had  the 
genius  for  inventing  things  without,  it  would 
appear,  the  talent  for  turning  his  inventions  to 
much  practical  account.  He  obtained  a  patent 
for  curing  smoky  chimneys,  and  another  for 
cleaning  muddy  pools;  evolved  plans  for  the 
raising  of  submerged  ships;  and  in  a  moment 
of  special  illumination  actually  discovered  the 
whereabouts  of  King  Solomon's  gold  and  silver 
mines — in  this  respect  anticipating  the  interest- 
ing performance  of  Mr.  Rider  Haggard.  In 
view  of  these  facts,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  add 
that,  Micawber-like,  he  was  always  in  an  impe- 
cunious condition,  and,  pending  the  establish- 
ment of  the  said  mines  on  a  modern  working 
basis,  was  fain  to  support  himself  and  wife  on  the 
offerings  of  his  daughter's  husband,  with  an 
additional  four  shillings  a  week  contributed  out 
of  the  charitable  fund  of  the  French  church  in 
London.  To  one  so  keenly  alive  to  the  meaning 
and  value  of  money,  and  so  cautious  and  eco- 
nomical in  the  management  of  his  own  affairs,  as 
Mr.  Pepys,  the  visions  and  vagaries  of  such  a 
father-in-law  must  have  given  constant  cause  for 
dissatisfaction  and  alarm. 

Mrs.   Pepys    thus   brought  her  husband  no 

84 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

fortune  but  her  beauty,  and  as,  at  the  time  of  their 
marriage,  Pepys  himself  had  obtained  no  settled 
position,  the  early  years  of  their  wedded  life  were 
rendered  picturesque  (from  an  artistic  point  of 
view)  by  financial  difficulties,  and  often  harassed 
by  the  ancient  problem  of  how  to  make  one  shil- 
ling do  the  work  of  two.  The  young  couple, 
however,  seem  to  have  put  a  brave  face  on  the 
matter,  and  to  have  kept  faith  in  each  other,  and 
in  the  coming  of  better  days.  At  this  period,  it 
must  be  remembered,  the  Diary  had  not  been 
started,  and  direct  information,  therefore,  fails 
us.  But  in  after  years,  as  wealth  grew,  and  his 
prosperity  became  firmly  established,  Pepys 
would  often  cast  a  back-glance  at  these  early 
times  of  anxiety  and  struggle,  indulging,  after 
his  manner,  in  many  quaint  expressions  of 
thankfulness  to  God  over  the  change,  and  fre- 
quent prayers  for  strength  and  courage  in  case 
of  sudden  fall. 

On  the  first  page  of  his  Diary  he  notes  that, 
though  " esteemed  rich,"  he  was  in  reality  "very 
poor," — a  combination  of  circumstances  which 
is  apt  at  times  to  be  trying  even  to  the  most 
philosophical.  His  salary  was  then  only  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  and  the  straitened  character  of 
his  domestic  conditions  is  shown  by  the  fact  that, 

85 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

when  the  curtain  rises  on  the  journal,  we  discover 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepys  dining  in  the  garret  on  the 
remains  of  a  turkey — in  the  preparation  of 
which,  be  it  mentioned  as  matter  of  history,  poor 
Mrs.  Pepys  burned  her  hand.  But  changes  were 
pending.  Chosen  secretary  to  Sir  Edward  Mon- 
tague on  his  taking  command  of  the  fleet  sent 
to  bring  Charles  the  Second  to  England,  Pepys 
was  shortly  afterwards  made  clerk  to  the  King's 
ships,  a  position  in  which,  through  his  industry 
and  astuteness,  he  was  presently  to  be  of  great 
service  to  the  country  in  very  critical  times.  This 
appointment  was  not,  however,  secured  without 
complications  and  difficulties.  The  actual  in- 
cumbent of  the  coveted  office  —  one  Barlow — 
was  a  rival  in  the  field,  with  personal  prestige 
and  influence  strong  enough  to  fill  poor  Pepys 
with  dismal  misgivings  concerning  his  own 
chances  of  success.  Matters  at  length  were 
amicably  settled  between  the  candidates  on  the 
basis  of  a  rather  singular  compromise.  Pepys 
was  inducted  into  the  position  on  undertaking  to 
pay  the  said  Mr.  Barlow  fifty  pounds  a  year  so 
long  as  his  (Pepys*  s)  salary  was  not  increased, 
and  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  when  it  was 
raised  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  or 
more.     The  tax  seems  a  heavy  one,  but  Pepys 

86 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

was  willing  to  accept  the  responsibility  on 
observing,  as  he  duly  notes  in  the  Diary,  that 
Mr.  Barlow  was  "an  old  consumptive  man," 
and  therefore,  assumably,  not  one  likely  to  call 
for  many  annual  payments.  The  old  consump- 
tive man  lived  till  1665,  and  the  entry  made  by 
Pepys  on  hearing  of  his  decease  is  too  charac- 
teristic not  to  be  reproduced  in  full: — 

"9  Feb.,  1665.  Sir  William  Petty  tells  me  that  Mr. 
Barlow  is  dead;  for  which,  God  knows  my  heart,  I 
would  be  as  sorry  as  it  is  possible  for  one  to  be  for  a 
stranger,  by  whose  death  he  gets  ^100  per  annum." 

While  still  a  young  man,  Pepys  was  made 
Clerk  of  the  Privy  Seal,  and  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  the  latter  appointment  ' '  mightily ' '  pleas- 
ing him,  though  he  notes  the  somewhat  unfortu- 
nate circumstance  that  he  was  "wholly  ignorant' ' 
of  the  duties  of  the  post.  Little  by  little  he  rose 
to  be  the  most  important  and  influential  of  the 
naval  officials,  with  a  steadily  improving  financial 
condition,  the  record  of  which  is  given,  year  by 
year,  in  great  detail  in  the  Diary.  Trouble  came 
presendy  in  the  shape  of  failing  eyesight,  and  by 
and  by  he  lost  his  wife;  but  material  fortune 
continued  to  attend  him  through  years  which 
were  fraught,  for  the  world  of  English  politics, 
with  vast  fluctuation   and  change.     At  length 

87 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

reverses  came.  In  1679-80,  he  was  imprisoned 
for  alleged  complicity  in  the  famous  Popish  Plot. 
After  his  release  he  was  made  Secretary  to  the 
Admiralty,  and  was  for  two  consecutive  years 
President  of  the  Royal  Society.  In  1690,  he 
was  again  imprisoned,  this  time  on  the  charge 
of  Jacobinism.  With  this  occurrence,  Pepys' s 
active  life  may  be  said  to  have  come  to  a  close. 
His  constitution  had  long  been  undermined  by  a 
malady  which  had  been  intensified  by  his  seden- 
tary existence,  and  in  1700  he  was  persuaded  by 
his  physicians  to  leave  his  house  in  York  Build- 
ings and  take  up  his  abode  at  the  home  of  his 
old  friend  and  servant,  William  Hewer,  at  Clap- 
ham.  There  he  died  on  26th  May,  1703,  having 
just  passed  the  Scriptural  term  of  life. 

Pepys' s  only  acknowledged  piece  of  literary 
work  was  "The  Memoirs  of  the  Royal  Navy," 
published  in  1690,  though  a  small  volume  enti- 
tled "Relation  of  the  Troubles  in  the  Court  of 
Portugal,"  and  bearing  the  initials,  S.  P.,  is 
sometimes  ascribed  to  him  by  bibliographers. 
Apart  from  the  Diary,  however, —  the  peculiar 
qualities  of  which,  it  will  be  understood,  remove 
it  altogether  from  the  region  of  comparison  — 
Pepys' s  most  useful  and  lasting  achievement  was 
the  foundation  of  the   famous   library  at  Cam- 

88 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

bridge,  which  still  bears  his  name — a  collection 
of  manuscript  naval  memoirs,  prints,  old  English 
ballads,  and  curious  miscellanea,  which,  by  the 
judgment  of  high  authorities,  remains  to-day  one 
of  the  richest  of  its  class.  The  visitor  to  Mag- 
dalene College,  Cambridge,  may  still  inspect  this 
library  as  it  stands  in  Pepys' s  original  book- 
presses;  and  if  he  be  a  student  of  the  journal, 
and  withal  a  man  of  any  imaginative  power,  he 
will  hardly  fail  to  recall  with  what  true  biblio- 
maniac delight  the  old  collector  gathered  these 
treasures  about  him  in  his  own  home,  with  what 
twinges  of  conscience  he  sometimes  laid  out 
larger  sums  than  he  felt  he  could  well  afford  in 
their  acquisition,  with  what  enthusiasm  he  pored 
over  their  pages,  with  what  satisfaction  and  pride 
he  arranged  and  rearranged  them  on  many  a 
dull  and  tedious  day. 

I  have  sketched  in  brief  the  external  history 
of  Pepys' s  life,  but  you  must  not  be  under  the 
impression  that  the  whole,  or  even  the  larger 
part  of  his  career,  is  covered  by  the  voluminous 
Diary.  This  daily  record  comprises  some  ten 
years  only,  extending  from  ist  January,  1659-60, 
when  the  writer  was  nearly  twenty-seven,  to 
May,  1669,  when  he  had  recently  completed  his 

89 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

thirty-seventh  year.  Just  how  and  why  he  came 
to  open  his  secret  chronicle,  he  nowhere  tells  us; 
but  he  makes  it  very  clear  that  he  closed  it  at 
length,  not  because  he  had  grown  weary  of  it,  or 
ceased  to  find  satisfaction  in  its  composition,  but 
simply  on  account  of  the  failure  of  eyesight, 
above  referred  to.  Very  pathetic  is  the  final 
entry: — 

"  And  thus  ends  all  that  I  doubt  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  do  with  my  own  eyes  in  the  keeping  of  my  journal, 
I  not  being  able  to  do  it  any  longer,  having  done  now 
so  long  as  to  undo  my  eyes  almost  every  time  that  I 
take  a  pen  in  my  hand;  and,  therefore,  whatever 
comes  of  it,  I  must  forbear;  and,  therefore,  resolve 
from  this  time  forward  to  have  it  kept  by  my  people  in 
long-hand,  and  must  be  contented  to  set  down  no 
more  than  is  fit  for  them  and  all  the  world  to  know;  or 
if  there  be  anything,  I  must  endeavor  to  keep  a  mar- 
gin in  my  book  open,  to  add  here  and  there  a  note  in 
short-hand  with  my  own  hand.  And  so  I  betake  my- 
self to  that  course,  which  is  almost  as  much  as  to  see 
myself  go  into  my  grave;  for  which,  and  all  the  dis- 
comforts that  will  accompany  my  being  blind,  the 
good  God  prepare  me.     May  31,  1669.     S.  P. 

Few  readers  probably  will  rise  from  the  peru- 
sal of  the  Diary,  dismissing  it  with  such  an  entry 
as  this  as  the  closing  note,  without  regretting 
that  the  end  should  have  come  just  when  it  did; 
for  we  would  well  have  liked  to  know  how  Pepys 

90 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

responded  to  some  of  his  later  experiences,  and 
especially  in  what  spirit  he  accepted  the  tragic 
accidents  which  presently  forced  his  manhood  to 
the  test.  About  these  matters  we  can  now  only 
speculate,  with  the  feeling  that  had  the  journal 
been  continued  for  even  a  few  years  longer,  we 
should  perhaps  have  been  brought  into  contact 
with  a  deeper,  stronger,  more  earnest  side  of  the 
writer's  character  than  actually  makes  itself  ap- 
parent in  the  narrative.  We  little  guess  what 
resources  of  courage  and  power  lie  somewhere 
mysteriously  stored  up  in  men  and  women  seem- 
ingly the  least  heroic,  to  be  drawn  upon  only 
when  the  great  and  decisive  moments  of  a  life- 
time come;  and  it  might  well  give  us,  we  fancy, 
a  certain  sense  of  satisfaction  if  we  could  follow 
the  vain  and  garrulous  Pepys  through  his  season 
of  growing  wealth  and  prosperity  onward  to  the 
time  when  he  fell  on  evil  days,  and  watch  him  in 
the  enveloping  darkness,  bowing  his  head  amid 
reverses  of  fortune,  or  standing  face  to  face  with 
death  beside  his  wife's  open  grave.  But  it  is 
useless  to  indulge  in  hypothesis.  We  must 
accept  the  Diary  as  it  is,  and  be  thankful  that 
the  years  covered  by  it  were  so  full  of  matters 
of  private  interest  and  public  importance. 

And  if  we  only  think  for  a  moment  of  all  that 

91 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

happened  in  a  public  way  during  these  ten  criti- 
cal years,  and  remember  that  Pepys,  by  virtue 
of  his  official  position,  was  often  drawn  into  very 
close  relations  with  some  of  the  moving  forces  and 
figures  of  the  time — "names  that  in  their  motion 
were  full- welling  fountain-heads  of  change," — 
we  can  realize  at  once  that  on  the  historical  side 
this  Diary  has  immense  value.  I  do  not  dwell 
upon  this  side  now,  for  time  is  limited,  and  there 
are  other  matters,  not  so  frequently  dealt  with, 
to  which  I  want  to  direct  attention.  Yet  it  is 
necessary  just  to  say  that,  as  documentary  evi- 
dence concerning  the  inner  life  of  the  court  and 
society,  the  inconceivable,  the  unutterable  profli- 
gacy of  the  King  and  his  followers,  the  irrespon- 
sibility of  those  in  charge  of  public  affairs,  the 
complete  demoralization  of  the  upper  classes 
during  the  early  years  of  the  Restoration,  Pepys' s 
chronicle  furnishes  a  record  that  we  cannot 
afford  to  overlook.  His  simplicity,  insouciance, 
and  habitual  self-possession  are  often  more  tell- 
ing than  the  most  eloquent  descriptions  of  histo- 
rians, the  most  fervid  denunciations  of  moralists. 
An  accidental  word  of  his  will  often  lay  bare 
a  condition  of  things  which  lengthy  analysis, 
supported  by  innumerable  references  to  author- 
ities will  hardly  make  us  realize,  a  few  passing 

92 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

sentences,  penned  au  jour  le  jour,  having  fre- 
quently the  power  of  throwing  some  circum- 
stance, otherwise  almost  incredible,  into  sudden 
and  lurid  relief.  Indeed,  the  mere  fact  that  the 
temper  of  moral  indignation  is  not  one  to  which 
Pepys  often  or  easily  gives  way,  itself  lends  added 
force  to  all  he  writes,  and  intensifies  the  meaning 
of  his  rare  exclamations  of  horror  or  protest.  If 
Pepys  had  any  political  convictions  at  all,  they 
were  of  the  most  flexible  kind;  he  did  not  culti- 
vate the  sort  of  conscience  which  has  the  trou- 
blesome faculty  of  interfering  at  unexpected 
times  with  its  owner's  chances  of  worldly  ad- 
vancement and  success.  Brought  up  under  the 
Commonwealth,  and,  for  a  time  at  least,  marked 
by  Roundhead  proclivities,  he  readily  and  rap- 
idly transferred  his  allegiance  to  the  new  r^gime^ 
his  only  anxiety  being,  it  would  seem,  lest  his 
earlier  opinions  should  be  resuscitated,  with 
unpleasant  practical  results.  Oddly  enough, 
though  the  Diary  opens  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
political  crisis  —  when  Monk  was  marching  from 
Scotland,  and  English  affairs  were  hanging 
poised  in  the  balance  of  fate, —  it  nowhere  con- 
tains any  utterance  of  strong  party  feeling,  any 
distinctly  enunciated  wish,  either  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Stuarts  or  for  the  preservation  of  the 

93 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

Commonwealth.  When  the  Merry  Monarch  was 
settled  upon  the  throne,  Pepys  quietly  accepted 
the  fact — along  with  the  very  desirable  office  in 
the  Admiralty  secured  thereby.  You  say  that 
the  spirit  thus  shown  is  not  a  manly,  not  a  noble 
one.  Alas!  no.  Pepys,  I  am  afraid,  had  but 
one  firmly  rooted  political  principle — the  princi- 
ple proverbially  associated  with  the  celebrated 
Vicar  of  Bray,  of  looking  out  for  himself  and 
his  own  welfare.  Here,  of  course,  we  are  strongly 
tempted  to  indulge  by  the  way  in  a  little  conven- 
tional moralizing,  and  to  congratulate  ourselves 
that  in  our  own  days,  in  enlightened  America, 
the  low  aims  and  sordid  ambitions  of  poor  old 
Pepys  are  quite  unknown.  But  I  restrain  my 
eloquence,  having  other  matters  on  hand.  The 
point  I  want  to  dwell  on  for  the  moment  is,  that 
testimony  to  the  political  and  social  corruption 
following  the  Restoration,  coming  from  such  a 
man  as  this,  is  testimony  of  almost  unique  value, 
on  account  of  the  very  character  of  the  witness. 
To  lead  you  through  the  miry  places  of  the 
Diary  is  no  part  of  my  present  plan;  but  let 
me  just  say  that  when  such  a  man,  albeit  unused 
to  the  chiding  mood,  bursts  out  with  the  excla- 
mation, "So  they  are  all  mad!  —  and  thus  the 
kingdom  is  governed!" — when,  as   sometimes 

94 


Pepys  and  His  Diary- 
happens,  he  speaks  with  genuine  sorrow  of  what 
he  has  heard,  or  perhaps  seen,  in  the  high  places 
of  the  land;  when  he  scatters  among  his  small 
talk  and  frivolous  details  sentences  full  of  dismal 
apprehension  concerning  the  country's  position 
and  outlook, —  then  things  must  have  come  to  a 
pretty  pass  indeed.  Pepys  was  professionally 
committed  to  the  Stuart  dynasty;  yet,  as  has 
been  well  said,  a  splendid  eulogy  of  Cromwell 
could  be  gathered  from  the  obiter  dicta  of  his 
pages.  Certainly,  we  need  hardly  travel  outside 
the  Diary  itself,  if  we  seek  only  to  understand 
and  estimate  the  iniquities  and  political  short- 
sightedness of  those  who  succeeded  Cromwell  in 
place  and  power. 

But  now  we  will  descend  from  the  dignity  of 
history  —  if  these  things  belong  to  the  dignity 
of  history — to  the  plane  of  common  every-day 
life.  Abandoning  our  quest  for  edification,  we 
will  wander  for  a  little  while  about  the  Diary,  for 
no  other  purpose  than  that  of  deriving  what 
amusement  we  may  from  its  personal  banalities 
and  social  tittle-tattle.  Pepys  tempts  us  to  be  as 
unsystematic  and  inconsequential  as  himself. 
We  will  assume,  therefore,  the  privilege  which, 
according   to   Hazlitt,   Coleridge   so   constantly 

95 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

abused  in  his  conversational  monologues — that 
of  beginning  nowhere  in  particular,  and  ending, 
if  we  see  fit,  in  the  same  place. 

It  has  been  said  that  in  Pepys' s  ten  years' 
record  there  are  more  than  five  hundred  refer- 
ences to  dress  and  personal  decoration.  I  have 
not  checked  the  statement,  but  I  can  easily 
believe  it.  This  gives,  roughly  speaking,  an 
average  of  one  such  notice  to  each  week  covered 
by  the  journal.  Dress  and  the  affairs  of  the 
toilet  were  indeed  for  Pepys  always  matters  of 
serious  importance,  not  to  be  disregarded  in  the 
midst  of  the  greatest  strain  of  public  events. 
We  learn  that  at  times  Mrs.  Pepys' s  feminine 
desire  for  a  new  gown  or  some  expensive  bit  of 
finery  gave  rise  to  domestic  bickering  and  hus- 
bandly reproof,  and  that  the  money  laid  out  on 
tailoring  and  haberdashery  occasionally  caused 
an  uneasy  hour.  Yet,  with  all  his  thrift,  Pepys 
seems  to  have  had  a  remarkably  free  hand  when 
questions  of  this  kind  stood  in  the  way.  He 
reports,  without  remorse,  the  payment  of  twenty- 
four  pounds  for  a  single  suit — the  best,  he  adds, 
"that  I  ever  wore  in  my  life";  and  later  on, 
notes  the  spending  of  eighty  pounds  for  a  neck- 
lace for  his  wife  —  though  in  this  case  he  has 
misgivings.      It  is   sad   to   relate   that,  on   the 

96 


Pepys  and  His  Diary- 
whole,  our  diarist  was  much  less  concerned  about 
his  own  personal  extravagances  than  about  the 
extravagances  of  his  better-half — a  fact  which 
shows  us  that  husbands,  like  other  conveniences 
of  life,  have  been  improved  by  the  course  of 
civilization.  At  any  rate,  once  noting,  to  his 
great  sorrow  and  alarm,  a  month's  outlay  of 
seventy-seven  pounds  on  dress  and  its  accom- 
paniments, he  adds  that  about  twelve  pounds  of 
this  had  gone  for  his  wife,  and  the  small  remain- 
ing balance  —  some  fifty-five  pounds — for  him- 
self. Charity  begins  at  home;  but  economy,  like 
justice,  often  starts  next  door.  Pepys' s  marital 
parsimoniousness  frequently  manifests  itself  in 
very  petty  ways;  as  when,  for  example,  under 
date  14th  February,  1666-7,  he  writes — "I  am 
also  this  year  my  wife's  valentine,  and  it  will  cost 
me  £5 ;  but  that  I  must  have  laid  out  if  we  had 
not  been  valentines." 

Once  upon  a  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepys  went 
to  the  theatre  together,  and  there  they  saw 
"Mrs.  Stewart,  very  fine,  with  her  locks  done  up 
with  puffs,  as  my  wife  calls  them,  and  several 
other  great  ladies  had  their  hair  so,  though  I  do 
not  like  it;  but  my  wife  do  mightily;  but  it  is 
only  because  she  sees  it  is  the  fashion."  This  is 
all  very  well  as  a  piece  of  superior  masculine 

97 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

judgment;  but  unfortunately  our  moralist  betrays 
no  such  scruples  when  social  opinion  prescribes 
a  new  departure  in  his  own  accoutrement.  We 
notice  with  interest  in  the  jottings  of  the  journal 
the  first  appearance,  or  early  reappearance,  of 
several  curious  customs  in  dress.  Patches  were 
used  by  Mrs.  Pepys,  for  the  first  time  "  since  we 
were  married,"  on  30th  August,  1660;  and  on 
1 2th  June,  1663,  after  observing  the  growth  of 
the  practice  then  indulged  in  by  ladies,  of  wear- 
ing vizards,  or  masks,  at  the  theatre — a  practice 
we  can  understand  better  as  we  come  to  know 
more  of  the  character  of  the  performances  given 
on  the  Restoration  stage,  —  Mr.  Pepys  goes 
forthwith  to  the  Exchange  "to  buy  things  with 
my  wife;  among  others,  a  vizard  for  herself." 
On  3d  November,  in  this  same  year,  he  reports 
the  adoption  by  himself  of  the  new  mode  of 
wearing  a  periwig  in  place  of  the  natural  hair. 
It  went  a  little  to  his  heart,  we  find,  to  part  with 
his  own  head-gear.  However,  he  was  somewhat 
reassured  when,  causing  all  his  maids  to  look 
upon  him,  he  observed  their  satisfaction  with  the 
result;  though  he  notes  intense  self-conscious- 
ness and  some  embarrassment  when,  the  next 
day,  he  went  abroad  for  the  first  time  in  his 
new  guise.    About  the  same  period  he  begins  to 

98 


Pepys  and  His  D;ary 

shave  himself — a  performance  which  pleases 
him  "mightily,"  as  promising  to  save  both  time 
and  money.  "Up  betimes  and  shaved  myself," 
so  runs  a  later  entry,  "after  a  week's  growth; 
but  Lord!  how  ugly  I  was  yesterday,  and  how 
fine  to-day." 

One  is  sorely  tempted  here  to  reproduce  a 
few  of  the  many  passages  in  which  the  vain  old 
chronicler  gloats  over  his  handsome  clothing, 
and  the  imposing  figure  cut  by  him  at  the  the- 
atre, or  on  the  promenade,  or  in  church.  But 
one  or  two  must  suffice  as  specimens: — 

"July  10,  1660.  This  day  I  put  on  my  new  silk  suit, 
the  first  that  ever  I  wore  in  my  life." 

"  Feb.  3,  1661,  {Lord's  Day).  This  day  I  first  begun 
[sic]  to  go  forth  in  my  coat  and  sword,  as  the  manner 
now  among  gentlemen  is." 

"  April  22,  1661.  Up  early,  and  made  myself  as  fine 
as  I  could." 

"Oct.  19,  1662,  (Lord's  Day).  Put  on  my  first  new 
lace-band;  and  so  neat  it  is,  that  I  am  resolved  my 
great  expense  shall  be  lace-bands,  and  it  will  set  off 
anything  else  the  more." 

"May  17,  1668,  (Lord's  Day).  Up  and  put  on  my 
new  stuff  suit,  with  a  shoulder  belt,  according  to  the 
new  fashion,  and  the  bands  of  my  vest  and  tunique 
laced  with  silk  lace  of  the  colour  of  my  suit;  and  so 
very  handsome  to  church." 

99 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

Alas,  poor  Pepys!  Where  be  your  lace-bands 
now  ?  your  shoulder-belts  ?  your  rich  silk  vests  ? 
The  prominence  of  dress  in  the  Diary  may  well 
surprise  us,  but  we  are  scarcely  less  astonished 
by  the  amount  of  space  given  by  our  busy  man 
of  affairs  to  the  most  various  kinds  of  pleasure 
and  simple  merrymaking.  Amongst  the  games 
in  which  Mr.  Secretary  Pepys  seems  to  have 
found  special  satisfaction,  tennis,  ninepins,  and 
billiards  hold  high  place;  but  these,  after  all,  never 
yielded  him  a  tithe  of  the  pure  enjoyment  that 
he  derived  from  his  more  intellectual  pastimes, 
reading  and  music.  Pepys  was  a  genuine  musi- 
cian; and  we  get  the  impression  from  the  journal 
that  his  love  of  music  reached  the  proportions  of 
a  real  passion — the  only  passion,  indeed,  of  his 
life.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  not  a  systematic 
scholar,  though  he  devoured  books  with  avidity, 
keeping  in  touch  with  the  literary  output  of  his 
day,  and  at  least  tasting  all  sorts  of  things,  from 
Cicero,  the  Hebrew  grammar,  and  Hooker's 
" Ecclesiastical  Polity,"  downward  to  Audley's 
"Way  to  be  Rich,"  and  the  last-published  com- 
edy of  the  popular  playwrights  of  his  time.  Here 
are  a  couple  of  sample  entries:  — 

11  Feb.  10, 1661-2.    To  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  there 
I  met  with  Dr.  Fuller's  ■  England's  Worthys,'  the  first 

100 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

time  that  ever  I  saw  it;  and  so  I  sat  down  reading  in 
it;  being  much  troubled  that  (though  he  had  some 
discourse  with  me  about  my  family  and  arms)  he  says 
nothing  at  all,  nor  mentions  us  either  in  Cambridge- 
shire or  Norfolke.  But  I  believe,  indeed,  our  family 
were  never  considerable." 

"July  i,  1666.  .  .  .  Walked  to  Woolwich,  reading 
'  The  Rivall  Ladys '  *  all  the  way,  and  find  it  a  most 
pleasant  and  fine  writ  play." 

Pepys' s  passing  opinions  have  not  much  criti- 
cal value,  but  they  are  his  own,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  many  literary  dicta  far  more 
pretentious  than  his.  It  is  rather  instructive  to 
follow  some  of  his  fluctuations  in  taste.  We 
notice  —  to  take  a  single  illustration  only — that 
when  the  first  part  of  ' '  Hudibras ' '  was  issued, 
he  bought  a  copy  for  half  a  crown,  having  heard 
it  much  cried  up  for  its  pungent  wit;  but  was  so 
much  disappointed  when  he  came  to  dip  into  it, 
that  he  sold  it  again  the  same  afternoon  for 
eighteen-pence.  Still  every  one  talked  of  the 
poem,  and  Pepys  began  to  wonder  whether  he 
had  given  it  a  fair  trial.  So  a  few  days  later  he 
purchased  another  copy,  resolved  on  closer  study. 
Now,  I  will  venture  to  say  that  in  this  emergency 

*  This  is  a  tragi-comedy  by  Dryden,  written  partly  in  blank 
verse,  partly  in  rhyme.  Pepys  had  seen  it  performed  some  two 
years  before,  and  had  then  pronounced  it  "  a  very  innocent  and 
most  pretty  witty  play." 

IOI 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

poor  Pepys  kept  himself  by  no  means  free  from 
the  sham  admiration  and  cuckoo-criticism  which 
is  the  bane  of  our  drawing-rooms,  and,  for  that 
matter,  of  some  of  our  college  classrooms,  at  the 
present  day.  Had  you  met  him  in  social  gath- 
erings, and  had  the  talk  turned  on  "Hudibras," 
as  it  would  almost  certainly  have  done,  then, 
doubtless,  you  would  have  found  that  Pepys, 
fearful  of  appearing  deficient  in  acumen  or  taste, 
would  have  little  or  nothing  to  say  about  his 
adverse  judgment,  and  might  even  consent  to 
laugh  perfunctorily  at  jokes  he  really  did  not 
think  funny,  and  at  doggerel  rhymes  which  in 
his  heart  of  hearts  he  held  to  be  simply  stupid. 
Meanwhile,  he  confides  to  his  Diary  the  expres- 
sion of  his  honest  opinion,  promising  himself 
that,  on  the  appearance  of  the  second  part  of  the 
poem,  he  will  borrow  it  from  some  friend,  and 
buy  it  only  if,  on  inspection,  it  should  turn  out 
to  be  better  than  the  first  part.  All  this  is  surely 
edifying. 

Here  we  ought  perhaps  to  add  that,  in  an  ill- 
advised  moment,  Mr.  Pepys  undertook  to  learn 
to  dance.  "The  truth  is,  I  think  it  a  thing  very 
useful  for  a  gentleman,  and  sometimes  I  may 
have  occasion  of  using  it,  and  though  it  cost  me 
what  I  am  heartily  sorry  it  should,"  (he  deeply 

1 02 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

deplores  the  payment  of  ten  shillings  entrance 
fee  to  the  class,)  "yet  I  am  resolved  to  get  it  up 
some  other  way.  .  .  .  So,  though  it  be  against 
my  stomach,  yet  I  will  try  it  for  a  little  while." 
The  subsequent  introduction  of  a  dancing-master, 
whose  name  was  Pemberton,  turned  out,  however, 
to  be  the  introduction  of  a  serpent  into  Pepys' s 
matrimonial  Paradise.  Mrs.  Pepys,  crazy  over 
the  new  accomplishment,  insisted  on  his  coming 
twice  a  day,  which,  as  Mr.  Pepys  properly  pro- 
tested, was  "a  folly."  Moreover,  he  by  and  by 
grew  jealous  of  his  wife's  attention  to  the  said 
Pemberton,  and  some  heartache  and  much  petu- 
lance were  the  result.  Pepys  gives  us  one  graphic 
description  of  himself,  too  angry  to  join  his  wife 
at  her  lesson,  yet  walking  up  and  down  in  his 
own  chamber,  "listening  to  hear  whether  they 
danced  or  no."  But  he  presently  became  an 
adept  in  the  art,  and  danced  his  own  part, 
infinitely  to  his  satisfaction,  in  many  a  corranto 
and  jig. 

For  Pepys,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  highly  con- 
vivial person,  and  abandoned  himself  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  moment  with  an  ardor  and 
whole-heartedness  which  fill  the  grimly  serious 
modern  reader  with  something  like  amazement. 
The  thought  of  the  morrow  rarely  for  him  dis- 

103 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

turbed  the  enjoyment  of  to-day,  though  with  the 
coming  of  the  morrow  he  sometimes  found  that 
he  had  applied  himself  to  the  good  things  of  this 
life  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Accounts  of  sup- 
pers, of  social  festivities  kept  up  until  ever  so 
much  o'clock  in  the  morning,  of  mirthmaking 
of  the  most  boisterous  kind,  abound  in  his 
pages,  mixed  up  with  matters  of  more  serious 
import  in  quite  a  bewildering  way.  Pepys  will 
often  round  off  some  such  detailed  report  with  a 
characteristic  comment  expressive  of  deep  satis- 
faction; as,  for  example,  "mighty  merry,"  or 
"so  home,  mighty  pleased  with  this  day's 
sport."  Carpe  diem  was  evidently  his  counsel 
of  perfection.  There  is  something  charming 
about  the  man's  juvenile  capacity  for  enjoyment, 
though  we  are  frequently  inclined  to  wonder  how 
he  managed  in  certain  emergencies  to  keep  his 
clear  head  and  his  steady  hand.  Yet  only  occa- 
sionally does  the  journal  record  any  marked 
reaction  from  even  the  most  roistering  overnight 
carousal.  Here,  however,  is  just  one  case  in 
point.  On  14th  August,  1666, — in  the  midst,  be 
it  noted,  of  a  good  deal  of  mental  disturbance 
caused  by  a  misunderstanding  between  himself 
and  Lord  Peterborough, —  Pepys  describes  at 
length  an  evening  of  wild  frolic  and  buffoonery. 

104 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

After  dinner,  with  his  wife  and  wife's  maid, 
Mercer  (who  played  a  rather  prominent  part  in 
subsequent  domestic  unpleasantnesses),  he  takes 
a  turn  at  the  Bear  Garden,  where  there  is  much 
wine-drinking. 

"Then  we  supped  at  home,  and  very  merry.  And 
then  about  9  o'clock  to  Mrs.  Mercer's  gate,  where 
the  fire  and  boys  expected  us,  and  her  son  had  pro- 
vided abundance  of  serpents  and  rockets;  and  there 
mighty  merry  (my  Lady  Pen  and  Pegg  going  thither 
with  us,  and  Nan  Wright)  till  about  12  at  night,  flinging 
our  fireworks  and  burning  one  another  and  the  people 
over  the  way.  At  last  our  businesses  being  most 
spent,  we  into  Mrs.  Mercer's,  and  there  mighty  merry, 
smutting  one  another  with  candle-grease  and  soot,  till 
most  of  us  were  like  devils.  And  that  being  done, 
then  we  broke  up,  and  to  my  house,  and  there  I  made 
them  drink;  and  upstairs  we  went,  and  there  fell  into 
dancing  ( W.  Batelier  dancing  well),  and  dressing  him 
and  I  and  one  Mr.  Banister  .  .  .  like  women;  and 
Mercer  put  on  a  suit  of  Tom's  like  a  boy,  and  mighty 
mirth  we  had;  and  Mercer  danced  a  jig,  and  Nan 
Wright  and  my  wife  and  Pegg  Pen  put  on  periwigs. 
Thus  we  spent  till  three  or  four  in  the  morning,  mighty 
merry;  and  then  parted  and  to  bed." 

Do  we  wonder  that  the  next  day's  entry  should 
significantly  open — ''Mighty  sleepy;  slept  till 
past  eight  of  the  clock"  ? 

As  wine-bibbing,  and  even  downright  drunk- 
enness, occupy  so  large  a  space  in  our  record,  it 

105 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

may  be  proper  to  note  indications  contained  in  it 
of  the  rise  of  domestic  forces  destined  to  do 
much  in  a  quiet  way  towards  the  gradual  im- 
provement of  general  manners  in  this  particular 
respect.  From  the  point  of  view  of  social  his- 
tory, there  is  much  to  interest  us  in  Pepys' s 
occasional  references  to  tea,  coffee,  and  choco- 
late. These  three  beverages  found  their  way  into 
England  within  a  few  years  of  one  another,  about 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  cocoa 
leading  the  way,  and  tea  bringing  up  the  rear. 
We  have  seen  that  on  one  occasion  our  diarist 
spoilt  his  bands  by  spilling  chocolate  upon  them. 
The  coffee-house  was  an  accomplished  fact  in  his 
time.  There  he  often  met  distinguished  men  on 
business;  there  he  passed  many  a  chatty  hour; 
there  he  once  reports  seeing  ' '  Dryden  the  poet 
.  .  .  and  all  the  wits  of  the  town."  For  tea  he 
never  seems  to  have  acquired  special  fondness. 
I  have  marked  but  two  references  to  it  in  the 
Diary.  Once,  on  28th  September,  1660,  he 
notes:  "I  did  send  for  a  cup  of  tea  (a  China 
drink),  of  which  I  never  had  drank  before," — 
and  unfortunately,  for  a  wonder,  he  does  not  tell 
us  how  he  liked  it.  And  again,  on  28th  June, 
1667,  he  chronicles  returning  home  to  find  his 
wife  ' '  making  of  tea,  a  drink  which  Mr.  Pelling, 

106 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

the  Potticary,  tells  her  is  good  for  her  cold." 
Tea,  by  the  way,  was  enormously  dear  in  those 
days,  and  was  supposed  to  possess  astonishing 
and  mysterious  medicinal  properties,  concerning 
which  we  may  read  much  in  a  broadside  issued 
by  Thomas  Garway,  the  coffee-man  of  Change 
Alley, —  a  rare  and  curious  document,  a  copy  of 
which  is  still  preserved  in  the  British  Museum. 

It  does  not,  of  course,  surprise  us  to  learn 
that  this  pleasure-loving  man  of  the  town  was  a 
regular  attendant  at  all  the  public  amusements 
of  his  time.  He  visited  the  cockpit,  the  bear- 
garden, the  gambling-room,  the  prize-ring; 
though,  much  to  his  credit,  he  found  little  pleas- 
ure in  these  places  of  popular  resort — a  fact 
which  makes  it  harder  for  us  to  understand  his 
frequent  presence  at  public  executions,  in  wit- 
nessing which,  as  many  entries  serve  to  show,  he 
found  a  curious  kind  of  satisfaction.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  enthusiasm  for  everything  con- 
nected with  the  theatre  was  simply  unbounded; 
his  Diary  remaining  to-day  an  important  source 
of  first-hand  information  on  all  matters  pertain- 
ing to  the  drama  of  the  Restoration.  From  his 
miscellaneous  jottings  we  gain  a  wonderfully 
vivid  impression  of  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  playhouse  of  the  period,  together  with  a 

107 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

sense  of  life  in  things  otherwise  dead  beyond 
recall.  For  Pepys  saw  the  great  Betterton  in  all 
his  glory,  and  was  bewitched  by  the  beautiful 
and  fascinating  Nell  Gwynne.  When  his  record 
opens,  boys  were  still  playing  female  parts,  as 
they  had  done  in  Shakspere's  time,  and  the 
introduction  of  women  to  the  English  stage  is 
duly  registered  by  him  as  an  event.  He  details, 
after  his  manner,  all  the  odds  and  ends  of  scan- 
dal concerning  prominent  theatrical  people;  was 
himself  on  very  friendly  terms  —  somewhat  too 
friendly  at  times  for  domestic  peace  —  with 
various  pretty  actresses;  and  was  an  occasional 
visitor  to  that  mysterious  realm  which  lies  be- 
hind the  scenes.  Once  in  a  while,  however,  he 
acknowledges  the  disillusion  caused  by  such 
excursions.  The  extremely  human  proportions 
into  which  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  that  magic 
stage-land  dwindled  when  seen  at  close  quarters, 
—  the  dust,  noise,  confusion,  paint,  powder,  and 
general  dinginess  of  the  dressing-rooms  and 
coulisses, — these  are  subjects  of  frequent  remark. 
Perhaps  his  most  disenchanting  experience  was 
one  connected  with  Nell  Gwynne — "pretty, 
witty  Nelly,"  as  he  fondly  calls  her, —  (we  will 
not  forget  that  the  Diary  was  written  in  cipher). 
He  finds  her  once  behind   the  curtain, — alas, 

108 


«  UN., 
Pepys  and  His  Diary 

that  we  should  have  to  repeat  it! — swearing  like 
a  trooper  because  of  the  smallness  of  the  audi- 
ence. Now,  a  small  house  is  a  trial  sufficient  to 
tax  the  philosophy  of  any  actress;  but  we  are 
sorry  that  pretty,  witty  Nelly,  should  have  be- 
haved herself  in  this  way.  Pepys  confesses  that 
on  this  occasion  he  went  home  a  sadder  and  a 
wiser  man. 

Let  us  not  imagine  that  Pepys  followed  his 
career  of  pleasure  without  twinges  of  conscience 
and  occasional  remorse.  The  expense  involved 
frequently  worried  him,  and  again  and  again  he 
reproved  himself  for  wasting  valuable  time.  It 
saddened  him  once  in  a  while,  too,  to  realize  that 
he  could  not  say  "No"  when  temptation  came 
in  his  way, — "a  very  great  fault  of  mine  which  I 
must  amend  in."  Sometimes  he  argued  the 
matter  out  to  a  logical  issue;  as,  for  instance, 
when,  on  9th  March,  1665,  he  writes:  — 

"The  truth  is  I  do  indulge  myself  a  little  more  in 
pleasure,  knowing  that  this  is  the  proper  age  of  my 
life  to  do  it;  and  out  of  my  observation  that  most  men 
that  do  thrive  in  the  world  do  forget  to  take  pleasure 
during  the  time  they  are  getting  their  estate,  but 
reserve  that  till  they  have  got  one,  and  then  it  is  too 
late  for  them  to  enjoy  it." 

jThis  eminently  philosophical  generalization  ap- 
pears to  have  given  him  a  good  deal  of  relief. 

109 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

Still,  the  qualms  would  come,  philosophy  not- 
withstanding. The  thought  of  neglected  business 
is  like  a  death's  head  at  the  feast  when  he  dines 
once  with  Lady  Batten  and  Madame  Williams; 
and  when,  on  another  memorable  occasion,  he 
goes  to  the  playhouse  when  he  knows  well 
enough  that  he  should  have  been  elsewhere,  he 
is  so  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself  that  he 
sneaks  in  and  takes  a  back  place — only  to  be 
immediately  singled  out  by  an  acquaintance,  who 
spies  him  out  from  afar,  and,  much  to  his  morti- 
fication, insists  on  sitting  beside  him.  Incidents 
of  this  kind  are  numerous  enough  to  show  us 
that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  was  sometimes 
hard. 

Pepys,  however,  managed  upon  occasion  to 
get  even  with  himself  in  these  delicate  matters 
by  a  very  curious  device.  He  registered  solemn 
vows, — as,  for  instance,  not  to  drink  wine  for  a 
specified  period,  or  not  to  go  to  the  play  till  after 
a  certain  date, — inflicting  various  penalties  upon 
himself  for  infraction.  These  penalties  habitually 
took  financial  forms  —  payments  to  charities  and 
the  like;  and  we  note  that  in  cases  of  infraction 
— and  these  were  sufficiently  frequent  —  Pepys 
was  more  deeply  concerned  about  the  spent 
money  than  about  the  broken  vow.     Moreover, 

no 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

it  has  to  be  acknowledged  that  some  fine  casuis- 
try is  now  and  then  shown  by  him  in  the  way 
in  which  he  manages  to  elude  the  sense  of  an 
obligation  while  technically  fulfilling  its  letter. 
Under  pledge  not  to  touch  wine,  he  consumes 
hypocras,  a  mixture  of  red  and  white  wine  with 
sugar  and  spices,  and  comforts  himself  with  the 
extraordinary  theory  that  this  is,  "  to  the  best  of 
my  personal  judgment,  .  .  .  only  a  mixed  com- 
pound drink,  and  not  any  wine."  Equally  dubi- 
ous are  some  of  his  theatrical  doings.  Once  he 
congratulates  himself  that  he  has  kept  his  vow 
because  he  arrives  at  the  playhouse  too  late  to 
make  it  worth  his  while  to  go  in  —  a  really  mag- 
nificent confusion  of  intention  with  result.  Once 
again,  he  allows  an  acquaintance  to  pay  for  him, 
and  exonerates  himself  on  the  ground  that  he 
was  taken  to  the  performance,  and  did  not,  so  to 
speak,  take  himself —  did  not,  in  other  words,  go 
as  a  free  agent,  and  of  his  own  impulse  and  will. 
And  on  yet  another  occasion, —  such  is  his 
subtlety, — he  gets  Mr.  Creed  to  treat  him  in  this 
way,  actually  lending  the  said  Mr.  Creed  the 
money  necessary  for  the  purpose.  This,  how- 
ever, he  felt  to  be  going  rather  too  far,  even  for 
an  ethical  theorist.  In  reporting  the  incident,  he 
adds  that  this  "is  a  fallacy  that  I  have  found 

in 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

now  once,  to  avoid  my  vow  with,  but  never  to 
be  more  practised,  I  swear." 

I  said  that  in  this  part  of  my  lecture  I 
should  make  no  attempt  to  maintain  logical  con- 
sistency. This  must  be  my  excuse  for  leading 
you  by  an  abrupt  transition  from  the  stage  to 
the  pulpit.  Pepys  occasionally  stayed  at  home 
on  Sundays  to  work  up  his  accounts,  or  look 
over  his  papers,  and  once  (but  he  was  sick  that 
day)  to  read  plays;  but  he  was,  on  the  whole,  a 
faithful  church-goer,  and,  as  we  have  had  occa- 
sion to  observe,  made  special  use  of  the  Lord's 
Day  for  a  display  of  his  new  clothes  and  finery, 
a  practice  which  to  modern  readers  must  needs 
seem  both  strange  and  reprehensible.  His  notes 
of  discourses  heard  by  him  are  sometimes  ex- 
tremely interesting;  while  his  criticisms  —  and  he 
was  evidently  by  no  means  easy  to  satisfy  in  the 
matter  of  sermons — are  often  as  pungent  and 
incisive  as  they  are  quaint  and  characteristic. 
"A  lazy,  poor  sermon,"  he  writes,  after  hearing 
Dr.  Fuller.  Once  he  reports  "an  unnecessary 
sermon  upon  original  sin,  neither  understood  " 
by  the  preacher  himself  "nor  the  people";  and 
another  time  he  hears  a  young  man  "play  the 
fool  upon  the  doctrine  of  Purgatory."  Consid- 
erable space  is  given  in  his  jottings  to  a  certain 

112 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

poor  young  Scotchman,  who  had  a  perfect 
genius  for  preaching  "most  tediously,"  and  who 
becomes  for  Pepys  a  sort  of  type  and  standard 
of  dulness  and  nebulosity.  Poor  little  Scot, 
thus  to  be  pilloried  to  the  end  of  time!  Pepys 
had,  however, — let  us  put  it  euphemistically, — 
a  wonderful  power  of  withdrawing  into  himself, 
when  the  exercises  of  the  pulpit  became  unus- 
ually trying — when,  to  adapt  the  phrase  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  a  preacher  abused  the 
privilege  preachers  have  of  being  long-winded 
and  tiresome.  Over  and  over  again  he  chronicles 
sleeping  soundly  through  a  sermon,  and  waking 
refreshed,  if  not  edified,  at  the  close.  "  After 
dinner,  to  church  again,  where  the  young  Scot 
preaching,  I  slept  all  the  while." — "So  up  and 
to  church,  where  Mr.  Mills  preached,  but  I  know 
not  how;  I  slept  most  of  the  sermon." — "So  to 
church,  and  slept  all  the  sermon,  the  Scot,  to 
whose  voice  I  am  not  to  be  reconciled  [one 
would  suppose  that  he  had  become  pretty  well 
reconciled  to  it,  judging  by  its  soporific  influ- 
ences] preaching."  I  pick  these  at  random,  as 
specimen  entries.  There  were  seasons,  however, 
when,  the  sermon  being  bad,  and  himself  unable 
to  achieve  the  benign  relief  of  slumber,  Pepys 
confesses  to  killing  time  in  less  innocent  ways. 

ii3 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

Susceptible  to  an  extreme  degree  to  feminine 
charms  and  graces,  he  often  passed  the  hour  of 
exhortation  in  looking  out  for  pretty  women, 
and  in  studying  carefully  their  various  styles  of 
beauty  and  of  dress.  Here  are  a  few  instances 
to  the  point.  ' '  To  church,  where,  God  forgive 
me!  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in  looking  on  my 
new  Morena  [brunette]  at  the  other  side  of  the 
church."  So  runs  one  of  his  confidences.  And 
again:  "  After  dinner,  I  by  water  alone  to  West- 
minster to  the  parish  church,  and  there  did 
entertain  myself  with  my  perspective-glass  up 
and  down  the  church,  by  which  I  had  the  great 
pleasure  of  seeing  and  gazing  at  a  great  many 
very  fine  women;  and  what  with  that  and  sleep- 
ing, I  passed  away  the  time  till  the  sermon  was 
done."  He  even  reports  that  once,  at  St.  Dun- 
stan's,  in  the  midst  too  of  an  "able  sermon,"  he 
found  himself  beside  a  "pretty,  modest  maid," 
whom  ■ '  I  did  labor  to  take  by  the  hand,  but  she 
would  not,  but  got  further  and  further  from  me; 
and  at  last  I  could  perceive  her  to  take  pins  out 
of  her  pocket,  to  prick  me  if  I  should  touch  her 
again,  which  seeing  I  did  forbear,  and  was  glad 
I  did  spy  her  design.  And  then  I  fell  to  gaze 
upon  another  pretty  maid  in  a  pew  close  to  me, 
and  she  on  me;  and  I  did  go  about  to  take  her 

:i4 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

by  the  hand,  which  she  suffered  a  little,  and  then 
withdrew.  So  the  sermon  ended,  and  the  church 
broke  up,  and  my  amours  ended  also." 

This  time,  by  a  transition  strictly  logical,  we 
are  led  to  speak  for  a  moment  about  the  most 
intimate  side  of  Pepys' s  domestic  existence — his 
relations  with  his  wife.  The  subject  is  a  difficult 
and  delicate  one;  it  is,  moreover,  too  complicated 
to  be  dealt  with  in  any  detail  here.  A  few  gen- 
eral words  must  suffice. 

Their  marriage  had  been  one  of  love,  and  it 
can  hardly  be  called,  on  the  whole,  an  unfortunate 
one,  in  spite  of  many  unhappy  episodes  and  a 
good  deal  of  misunderstanding;  for  even  in  the 
white  glare  of  the  Diary,  where  every  fleck 
shows,  their  home  life  often  comes  out  in  a  very 
pleasant  light.  Still  there  were  unquestionably, 
even  from  the  very  beginning,  little  rifts  within 
the  lute,  and  these  rifts  widen  terribly,  we  notice, 
as  the  journal  runs  its  course.  To  the  outside 
world,  very  probably,  such  rifts  were  not  often 
apparent;  but  we  are  privileged  to  see  matters 
close  at  hand,  and  from  the  inside;  and  this  un- 
dercurrent of  tragedy,  beneath  the  broad  stream 
of  prosperity  and  success,  becomes  at  times  pain- 
fully manifest  as  we  read. 

I  suppose  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  in  the 

"5 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

case  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepys' s  various  matrimo- 
nial difficulties,  the  entire  blame  rested  on  either 
pair  of  shoulders.  Mrs.  Pepys  was  extremely 
pretty  and  attractive,  and  her  husband  admired 
her  thoroughly,  and  was  after  his  own  rather  sin- 
gular fashion,  devotedly  attached  to  her.  Yet  she 
was  evidently  whimsical,  somewhat  capricious, 
apt  to  get  into  what  Pepys  calls  ( 'fusty"  humors, 
and  at  times  exceedingly  trying  to  the  nerves. 
Many  a  little  crisis,  not  serious  perhaps,  but  dis- 
tinctly unpleasant,  seems  to  have  been  brought 
about  by  a  word  unnecessarily  spoken,  a  look  or 
a  phrase  interpreted  amiss.  But,  after  all,  we  fear 
that  the  main  burden  of  responsibility  rested 
with  Pepys  himself.  Why  would  he  undertake 
to  teach  the  poor  young  woman  astronomy  and 
arithmetic,  when,  admittedly,  she  had  neither 
taste  nor  talent  for  such  subjects  ?  Why  was  he 
so  much  upset  on  finding  that  her  ear  for  music 
was  not  nearly  as  good  as  he  thought  it  should 
have  been?  Why  did  he  cut  her  short  so  per- 
emptorily on  one  most  unfortunate  occasion 
when  she  was  telling  that  long-winded  story  of 
hers  from  "The  Grand  Cyrus"?  Why  was  he 
petulant  with  her,  at  another  time,  for  no  better 
reason,  as  he  himself  confesses,  than  that  he  was 
hungry,  and  she  had  dressed  herself,  as  she  not 

116 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

infrequently  did,  in  a  manner  that  displeased 
him  ?  Why,  finally,  when  she  was  berating  him 
rather  roundly  about  her  deficient  wardrobe,  did 
he  fall  to  reading  Boyle's  "Hydrostatics"  aloud, 
"and  let  her  talk  till  she  was  tired,  and  vexed 
that  I  would  not  hear  her"?  It  is  surely,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  far  from  tactful  in  a  husband  to 
declaim  from  a  treatise  on  hydrostatics,  when  his 
wife  is  determined  to  discuss  more  serious  mat- 
ters. These  may  be  trifles;  but  such  trifles  are 
important  things,  when  viewed  from  the  stand- 
point of  domestic  peace.  But  all  this  touches 
merely  the  fringe  of  the  problem.  The  really 
serious  troubles  were  generally,  if  not  always, 
caused  by  poor  Mr.  Pepys' s  fatal  over-sensibility 
— that  characteristic  weakness  of  his,  to  which 
he  himself  from  time  to  time  became  only  too 
keenly  alive.  The  simple  fact  of  the  matter  is, 
that  our  diarist  had  a  fondness  for  the  society  of 
pretty  women;  that  his  wife,  naturally  enough, 
grew  jealous;  and  that  all  sorts  of  unpleasant- 
ness, deepening  sometimes  into  genuine  domes- 
tic tragedy,  was  the  inevitable  result.  I  have 
not  time  now  to  go  into  the  ins  and  outs  of  what 
is  really  a  very  long  story,  to  follow  the  rapid 
fluctuations  of  feeling,  or  mark  out  the  converging 
lines  of  approach  to  the  unavoidable  catastrophe. 

117 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

But  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  recounting 
one  curious  episode — that  of  a  neat  joke  once 
played  by  Mrs.  Pepys  on  her  susceptible  better- 
half.  Pepys,  early  in  the  period  of  the  Diary, 
had  fallen  in  with  his  wife's  desire  to  have  a  girl 
to  live  with  them — a  kind  of  companion  and 
lady's  maid.  He  did  not  like  the  expense 
incurred;  but  as  long  as  the  young  lady  was 
sufficiently  well-favored  to  be  a  pleasant  object 
to  look  on,  he  saw  but  little  other  cause  for 
complaint — though  cause  for  complaint,  and 
good  cause  too,  Mrs.  Pepys  was  presently  to 
find.  Well,  on  one  occasion  his  wife  told  him 
she  had  engaged  a  new  maid — a  girl  so  pretty 
and  winsome,  she  went  on  to  say,  that  positively 
she  was  already  jealous.  Mr.  Pepys  was  a  little 
uneasy  about  all  this.  However,  he  concluded 
that  she  " meant  it  merrily,"  and  awaited  with 
a  good  deal  of  ill-repressed  excitement  the 
coming  of  the  domestic  beauty.  In  due  season, 
Hebe  arrived;  and  judge  his  astonishment  and 
disgust,  when  he  found,  as  he  plaintively  reports, 
that  she  was  not  pretty  at  all,  but  a  very  ordi- 
nary wench!  For  once,  at  all  events,  the  laugh 
was  on  Mrs.  Pepys' s  side. 

Towards  the  latter  part  of  the  Diary  the  con- 
jugal misunderstandings  pass  into  a  very  acute 

118 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

stage,  and  for  a  time  a  break-up  of  the  Pepys 
establishment  seems  imminent.  But  we  are  glad 
to  be  able  to  record  that  the  crisis  was  a  compar- 
atively brief  one.  Mr.  Pepys,  sorrow-smitten 
and  full  of  remorse  over  his  recent  ill-doings, 
undertakes  to  mend  his  ways,  and  sets  manfully, 
though  with  some  misgivings  and  much  diffi- 
culty, about  the  task  of  so  doing.  And  thus  the 
curtain  falls  upon  what  promises  to  be  a  complete 
reconciliation;  and  we  close  the  Diary  with  the 
hope  that  the  new  peace  lasted  for  the  few  brief 
years  that  were  destined  to  elapse  before  the  life 
of  poor  Elizabeth  Pepys  was  brought  to  its 
untimely  end.  There  is  one  odd  commentary 
on  matrimony,  which  I  must  needs  add  for  its 
characteristic  strain.  Pepys,  going  to  church 
one  day,  happens  by  accident  to  witness  a  wed- 
ding, and  is  much  interested  in  what  Thackeray 
described  as  "the  happy  couple,  as  the  saying 
is."  In  chronicling  this  incident,  he  makes  the 
following  extraordinary  remark:  "Strange  to 
see  what  delight  we  married  people  have  to 
see  these  poor  fools  decoyed  into  our  condition, 
every  man  and  woman  gazing  and  smiling  upon 
them." 


119 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

There  is  much  still  on  the  purely  personal  side 
of  the  Diary  about  which  I  should  well  have 
liked  to  speak;  and,  in  particular,  I  had  hoped 
to  dwell  for  a  little  on  Pepys' s  notices  of  the 
Great  Plague  (which  are  much  more  interesting, 
as  well  as  accurate,  than  Defoe's  well-known 
romancing  book),  and  on  his  graphic  account 
of  the  fire  of  London,  which  forms  an  admirable 
commentary  on  the  second  half  of  Dryden's 
famous,  if  somewhat  unmanageable,  poem,  "An- 
nus Mirabilis."  But  these  matters,  and  many 
other  such,  cannot  now  be  even  touched  upon. 
Meanwhile,  in  bringing  these  rambling  memo- 
randa to  a  close,  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  apolo- 
gize for  what  may  seem  the  frivolous  character 
of  my  material.  The  unique  charm  of  Pepys' s 
Diary,  as  I  said  at  the  outset,  lies  very  largely  in 
the  frankness,  the  naivete,  the  unsophisticated 
directness  of  its  record;  it  is,  as  I  insisted,  really 
and  truly  what  other  chronicles  of  the  kind  have 
been  simply  in  name,  a  journal  intime.  Some- 
thing of  this  frankness,  this  naivete,  it  has  been 
my  aim  to  illustrate,  and  to  show  you  at  the 
same  time  how  quaint  and  startling  are  some 
of  the  results.  And  let  me  ask  you  not  to 
judge  too  harshly  of  the  man  into  whose  exist- 
ence we  have  thus  ventured  to  pry.     Remember 

1 20 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

that  we  have  been  privileged  in  his  case  to  push 
aside  the  curtain  which  men  habitually  keep 
carefully  drawn  across  the  penetralia  of  their 
lives;  that  we  have  caught  him  often  enough  at 
unfair  advantage,  and  in  a  light  fiercer  than  that 
which,  Tennyson  says,  beats  upon  a  throne, 
blackening  each  blot.  At  any  rate,  I,  for  my 
own  part,  see  no  reason  why,  as  we  lay  his  Diary 
aside,  we  should  indulge  in  platitudes  of  criti- 
cism— still  less,  why  we  should  console  ourselves 
with  the  flattering  thought  of  moral  superiority. 
Pepys  was  not  a  great  man,  it  is  true :  he  was 
often  weak,  often  foolish;  the  temptations  of  the 
world  again  and  again  proved  too  much  for  him; 
at  many  important  points,  his  theory  and  prac- 
tice of  life  were  alike  unsound.  But  it  might  be 
well  perhaps,  before  we  undertake  to  throw 
stones  at  his  glass  house,  to  look  a  little  carefully 
into  the  vitreous  mansion  in  which  we  ourselves 
dwell.  And  if  you  and  I  were  forced  to  lay  bare, 
as  he  has  done  for  himself,  the  secret  thoughts 
and  feelings,  the  passing  fancies,  the  unspoken 
desires,  the  foibles  and  failures  of  our  every-day 
existence,  I  wonder  how  many  of  us  would  see 
reason  to  be  proud  of  the  revelation  so  made. 
O  my  brothers,  let  us  be  humble  and  charitable! 
Humility  and  charity  are  excellent  things;   and 

121 


Pepys  and  His  Diary 

humility  and  charity,  I  confess,  I  find  constantly 
forced  upon  me  whenever  I  dip,  for  an  hour's 
genuine  amusement,  into  the  Diary  of  old  Sam- 
uel Pepys. 


122 


Two  Novelists   of  the  English 
Restoration. 


Two  Novelists   of  the  English 
Restoration. 


IT  is  the  object  of  this  brief  paper  to  introduce 
the  good-natured  reader,  who,  as  a  well- 
organized  human  being,  is  undoubtedly  possessed 
of  a  proper  love  of  fiction,  to  two  women  who 
had  much  to  do  with  settling  the  English  novel 
into  its  true  line  of  development.  I  confess  I 
could  wish  that  the  ladies  in  question  were,  so- 
cially and  morally,  a  trifle  more  presentable.  I 
can  well  remember  the  time  when  I  myself  made 
their  acquaintance  in  the  library  of  the  British 
Museum,  and  how  I  was  almost  ashamed  of 
myself,  despite  the  fact  that  I  had  the  definite 
purposes  of  a  student  to  support  me,  when  I 
thought  of  the  hours  I  had  been  fain  to  spend  in 
their  singularly  unedifying  company.  But  in 
the  study  of  literary  evolution,  as  in  that  of  the 
history  of  the  world  at  large,  it  is  not  always 
possible  to  be  over-fastidious.  When  we  are 
interested  in  a  thing  done,  we  must  consider,  as 

"5 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

cheerfully  as  may  be,  the  doer  and  the  doing  of 
it,  though  we  may  have  fault  enough  to  find 
sometimes  with  the  character  of  the  former  and 
the  manner  of  the  latter. 

The  women  to  whose  personalities  and  writings 
we  are  presently  to  turn  —  Mrs.  Behn  and  Mrs. 
Manley  —  stand  out  among  the  least  attractive 
products  of  an  age  of  low  ideals  and  scandalous 
living.  But  they  none  the  less  remain  figures  of 
some  permanent  attractiveness  to  those  of  us  who 
care  to  investigate  the  beginnings  of  our  great 
modern  prose  fiction;  and  it  is  on  account  of 
their  relative  or  historic  importance  that  I  have 
undertaken  to  say  something  about  them  in  this 
place. 

In  order,  however,  to  make  such  historic  im- 
portance clear,  we  must  go  back  a  little  in  our 
inquiry. 

The  titanic  imaginative  energy  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan and  Jacobean  periods  had  found  its  prin- 
cipal outlet  in  the  drama.  It  was  on  the  stage 
and  through  the  literature  of  the  stage  that,  dur- 
ing the  most  brilliant  era  of  its  intellectual  ac- 
tivity, the  genius  of  the  English  people,  for  the 
most  part,  sought  expression.  The  drama  thus 
became  the  representative  and  the  embodiment 
of  all  that  was  strongest  and  most  characteristic 

126 


English  Restoration 

in  the  national  life.  In  it  we  find  the  great  men- 
tal and  moral  movements  of  the  time  gathered 
up  and  made  vocal;  to  it  we  turn  for  the  fullest 
and  richest  manifestation  of  the  national  mind. 
As  Mr.  Symonds  truly  said:  "The  drama,  its 
own  original  creation,  stood  to  the  English  nation 
in  the  place  of  all  the  other  arts.  England  .  .  . 
needed  no  aesthetic  outlet  but  the  drama." 

But  little  by  little  the  close  connection  be- 
tween the  stage  and  the  national  life  was  severed; 
and  cut  off  from  its  sources  of  deepest  impulse 
and  inspiration,  the  drama  fell  gradually  into  a 
condition  of  decrepitude  and  decay.  For  many 
years  before  the  Revolution  the  breach  between 
theatre  and  people  had  been  a  slowly  widening 
one;  and  by  the  time  the  Restoration  once  more 
gave  free  rein  to  dramatic  art,  the  separation  had 
become  complete.  No  longer  making  catholic 
appeal  to  the  whole  community,  no  longer  ab- 
sorbing into  itself,  by  way  of  nourishment  and 
stimulation,  the  broad  and  generous  interests  of  a 
varied  social  life,  the  drama  now  became  the 
mouthpiece  and  the  mirror  of  one  class  only — 
of  the  aristocratic  class,  which  had  brought  for- 
eign fashions,  tastes,  morality,  with  it  from 
abroad.  The  theatre  of  Shakspere  and  his  con- 
temporaries had  been,  as  it  were,  the  flower  and 

127 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

fruitage  of  a  period  of  intense  national  vigor  and 
excitement;  the  theatre  of  Congreve  and  Wych- 
erley  was  little  more  than  the  passing  amuse- 
ment of  the  idle  and  demoralized  fashionable 
world.  Harassed  by  Puritan  austerity  on  the 
one  hand,  and  more  seriously  perverted  by 
Royalist  profligacy  upon  the  other,  the  drama 
was  forced  into  a  relationship  with  the  larger 
mass  of  the  people  at  once  unnatural  and  most 
disastrous;  and  thus  the  plays  of  the  time,  in 
spite  of  all  their  pungency  of  wit  and  glitter  of 
dialogue,  lack  that  breadth  of  horizon,  earnest- 
ness of  purpose,  and  firm  grasp  of  life,  without 
which  no  body  of  literature — and  no  body  of 
dramatic  literature  especially — can  lay  claim  to 
permanent  value  and  significance. 

Meanwhile  a  new  taste  was  growing  up,  and 
with  it  a  fresh  channel  was  opened  for  imagina- 
tive activity.  While  the  drama,  sapped  at  its 
foundations,  was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into 
corruption,  and  before  as  yet  any  effort  had  been 
put  forth  to  save  it  from  its  fate,  the  first  note- 
worthy experiments  were  being  made  towards 
the  development  of  a  class  of  literature  which 
has  since  acquired  unrivalled  popularity,  and 
every  year  continues  to  fill  a  larger  and  larger 
place  in  public  estimation,  as  well  as  upon  our 

128 


English  Restoration 

library  shelves.  The  causes  which  combined  to 
bring  about  the  decline  of  the  drama  and  the 
rise  of  the  modern  novel  were  so  varied  in  char- 
acter and  intricate  in  their  outworkings,  that 
even  the  briefest  discussion  of  them  here  would 
commit  us  to  an  unwarrantable  digression; 
though  it  should  be  said,  and  said  emphatically, 
that  the  change  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  mere 
matter  of  shifting  literary  taste,  since  it  was  un- 
questionably related,  in  the  most  direct  and  inti- 
mate way,  with  some  of  the  largest  and  deepest 
movements  of  the  time  in  society,  manners,  and 
general  thought.*  Suffice  it  for  us  now  to  re- 
mark the  simple  fact  that,  while  the  dramatists 
of  the  Restoration  were  engaged  upon  works 
which,  fortunately  for  English  society  and  letters, 
left  but  little  permanent  mark  upon  the  history 
of  the  theatre,  the  foundations  were  being  slowly 
but  firmly  laid  upon  which  the  vast  superstruc- 
ture of  modern  fiction  was  presently  to  be  reared. 
So  thoroughly  absorbed  had  men  been  in  the 
drama,  and  so  natural  had  it  seemed  for  those 


*  Taking  always  in  my  own  study  of  literature  the  wider  line  of 
inquiry  just  indicated,  I  am  grateful  to  Professor  Royce  for  pointing 
out  the  connection  between  two  phenomena  apparently  so  radically 
diverse  as  the  spread  of  prose  fiction  and  the  appearance  of  the 
Lockian  philosophy.  (See  his  delightful  volume— a  model  of  popular 
exposition— "The  Spirit  of  Modern  Philosophy,"  pp.  80-81.) 

129 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

of  imaginative  power  to  turn  directly  to  the 
stage,  that  hitherto  prose  fiction,  though  by  no 
means  neglected,  had  done  little  towards  making 
a  decisive  start.  Some  popular  stories,  then 
long  current,  had  been  gathered  up  and  circu- 
lated in  chap-books,  and  had  in  sundry  cases 
furnished  materials  for  contemporary  playwrights; 
translations  had  been  made  from  several  foreign 
languages,  and  in  this  way  "Don  Quixote,"  and 
the  works  of  Rabelais,  Boccaccio,  Montemayor, 
and  others,  introduced  to  English  readers;  while 
such  collections  of  versions  and  adaptations  as 
those  of  Painter  and  Turbervile  might  have  been 
found,  it  is  said,  so  great  had  been  their  tem- 
porary vogue,  on  almost  every  London  book- 
stall. Moreover,  the  form  of  fiction  had  been 
occasionally  employed  by  philosophers  for 
broaching  new  theories  of  life  and  government; 
as  by  More,  in  his  "Utopia,"  and  Bacon,  in  his 
"New  Atlantis."  And,  far  more  important 
than  any  such  sporadic  efforts  as  these,  there 
were  the  romances  produced  by  some  of  the 
early  dramatists  —  Lyly,  and  his  most  famous 
followers,  Lodge  and  Greene,  in  particular.  To 
these  have  to  be  added  the  chivalrous  pastoral 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  "warbler  of  poetic  prose"; 
and  in  a  very  different  category,  the  stories  and 

130 


English  Restoration 

sketches  of  Thomas  Nash,  Dekker,  and  Chettle, 
whose  work,  apart  altogether  from  any  question 
of  absolute  merit,  is  of  supreme  significance  to 
the  student  of  English  fiction,  because  in  it  we 
find  the  crude  beginnings  of  the  picaresque  novel 
of  later  times. 

Lumped  together  in  this  way — and  the  above 
paragraph  makes  no  pretence  at  completeness  of 
statement,  —  the  amount  of  prose  fiction  of  one 
and  another  kind  produced  in  England  under 
Elizabeth  and  James  the  First  may  seem  to  be 
considerable,  and  certainly  no  student  of  the 
evolution  of  literature,  or  of  the  many-sided  intel- 
lectual activity  of  the  Shaksperian  age,  would 
to-day  think  of  underrating  it.  Yet  it  is  possible 
perhaps  to  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  to  exag- 
gerate its  historic  importance.  To  trace  the 
connection  between  the  tentative  output  of  the 
'prentice- writers  just  referred  to  and  the  fully 
grown  fiction  of  the  eighteenth  century — to  indi- 
cate, for  example,  the  lines  along  which  Nash 
leads  us  through  Defoe  to  Smollett  and  Fielding, 
and  the  points  of  unexpected  contact  between 
Sidney  and  Richardson  is  an  inquiry  full  of 
curious  interest  for  the  special  student.  But  too 
much  might  easily  be  made  of  the  results 
brought  to  light  thereby.     After  duly  allowing 

131 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

for  the  isolated  productions  of  the  Elizabethan 
period,  which  undoubtedly  broke  ground  in 
many  directions,  we  come  back  still  to  the  broad 
fact,  that  it  was  not  until  after  the  Restoration, 
and  largely  as  a  result  of  what  was  then  under- 
taken and  accomplished,  that  the  novel  firmly 
established  itself  as  a  well-defined  form  of  literary 
art.  With  the  Restoration,  therefore,  it  may 
fairly  be  said  that  we  open  a  new  chapter  in  the 
history  of  English  fiction. 

The  new  era,  however,  began  badly  enough, 
in  the  midst  of  a  byway  of  most  absurd  experi- 
ment, which  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
lead  to  any  permanent  achievement.  For  along 
with  so  much  else  that  was  French  in  manners, 
fashions,  morals,  turns  of  speech,  there  had  al- 
ready been  imported  into  England  a  taste  for  the 
peculiar  form  of  romance — the  roma?i  ci  longue 
haleine — which  was  just  then  enjoying  amazing 
popularity  in  the  country  of  its  birth,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel.  As  we  turn  back  to 
the  dull  and  monstrous  productions  of  the  class 
now  in  question,  we  find  it  difficult  enough  to 
conceive  that  in  any  place,  under  any  possible 
circumstances,  there  should  have  been  men  and 
women  able  to  derive  not  simply  enjoyment,  but 

132 


English  Restoration 

passionate  and  continuous  enjoyment,  from  their 
pages.  But  the  famous  Hotel  de  Rambouillet 
had  set  its  mark  upon  them,  and  in  the  well- 
prepared  country  of  the  " Arcadia,"  they  realized 
instant  and  complete  success,  not  only  among 
the  ultra-fashionables  of  a  Gallicized  society,  but 
also  in  the  more  general  reading  world. 

We  must  glance  for  a  moment  at  one  or  two 
of  the  most  salient  characteristics  of  the  school 
of  fiction  which  thus  became  for  a  time  so 
widely  influential,  that  we  may  at  once  appre- 
ciate its  stultifying  tendencies,  and  bring  into 
clear  perspective  what  we  shall  presently  have  to 
say  about  the  work  of  Mrs.  Manley  and  Mrs. 
Behn.  In  doing  this  we  need  go  no  farther  than 
the  examples  furnished  by  the  three  most  prom- 
inent French  leaders  of  polite  taste — Gomber- 
ville,  La  Calprenede,  and  Mile,  de  Scuderi. 

In  the  first  place,  the  would-be  student  of  the 
so-called  classical-heroic  romances  of  these  once 
celebrated  writers  is  staggered  by  their  tremen- 
dous bulk  and  inordinate  prolixity.  The  modern 
reader  shudders  at  Richardson,  and  takes  his 
" Pamela"  and  "Sir  Charles  Grandison"  in  con- 
densed editions.  But  Richardson  is  brevity 
itself  compared  with  these  earlier  indefatigable 
laborers  in  the  field  of  the  novel.     Gomberville's 

133 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

"Polexandre"  began  in  four  volumes  quarto, 
and  in  its  later  editions  comprised  some  six  thou- 
sand pages;  the  "Cleopatre"  of  La  Calprenede, 
when  finished,  filled  twelve  octavo  volumes; 
"Pharamond,"  written  partly  by  the  same  au- 
thor, and  partly  by  Pierre  d'Ortigue  de  Vau- 
moriere,  reached  nearly  the  same  length;  while 
the  "Clelie"  and  "Le  Grand  Cyrus"  of  Mile, 
de  Scuderi — who  in  the  matter  of  resolute  long- 
windedness  was,  naturally  enough,  more  than  a 
match  for  her  masculine  rivals  —  extended 
respectively  to  some  eight  thousand  and  fifteen 
thousand  octavo  pages.*  These,  and  such  as 
these,  were  the  works  that  Pope  was  ridiculing 
when  in  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock"  he  built  out 
of  them  an  altar  for  the  due  celebration  of  the 
"adventurous  baron's"  religious  rites;  and  he 
was  surely  justified  in  describing  them  as  "huge 
French  romances."  It  makes  us  feel  how  little 
of  permanence  and  stability  there  is  in  any  mat- 
ter of  taste,  when  we  remember  that  these  colos- 
sal productions,  over  which  the  most  patient 
reader  of  to-day  would  soon  catch  himself  yawn- 
ing, were  once  awaited  with  interest  and  de- 
voured with  avidity. 

*  The  reader  of  Pepys,  recalling  Mrs.  Pepys's  fondness  for  these 
interminable  stories,  will  remember  that,  as  we  have  seen,  "  Le 

134 


English  Restoration 

But  even  more  important,  from  the  standpoint 
of  literary  history,  than  the  mere  size  of  these 
overgrown  absurdities  were  their  structural  prin- 
ciples and  peculiarities  of  style.  An  offshoot 
apparently  from  the  chivalrous  and  pastoral  ro- 
mances of  earlier  date,  with  the  addition  of  what 
it  pleased  writers  and  readers  alike  to  regard  as 
an  " historical' '  blend  of  interest,  the  classical- 
heroic  romance  proper  presents  a  bewildering 
jumble  of  the  most  far-sought  and  incongruous 
materials.  In  fine  disregard  of  anachronism  and 
inconsistency,  their  authors  carry  us  hither  and 
thither  about  the  world,  introducing  us  to  Greeks 
and  Romans,  Egyptians  and  Persians,  Knights 
of  the  Round  Table,  Paladins  of  Charlemagne, 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  of  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular, and  even  Peruvian  Incas.  The  main 
plot,  as  a  rule  deceptively  simple,  is  complicated 
from  first  to  last  by  enormous  and  intricate  ram- 
ifications of  secondary  actions;  a  characteristic 
due  to  the  fact  that  every  fresh  individual  in- 
troduced, whether  in  the  central  narrative,  or  in 
some  excrescence  from  it,  persists  in  recounting 
his  own  adventures  at  tremendous  length.  Thus 
we  have  story  within  story,  wheel  within  wheel, 

Grand  Cyrus  "  once  gave  rise  to  considerable  unpleasantness  be- 
tween husband  and  wife. 

135 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

till  the  reader  completely  loses  his  hold  upon 
the  tangled  threads  of  intrigue,  and  collapses 
into  a  condition  of  dazed  despair.*  But  this  is 
not  the  worst.  The  characters  seem  to  be  to- 
tally unable  to  tell  their  experiences  in  a  straight- 
forward fashion  and  have  done  with  it.  They 
linger  by  the  way  —  time  being  of  no  importance 
to  any  of  them  —  to  indulge  in  everlasting  con- 
versations and  soliloquies,  discourse  learnedly  on 
delicate  questions  of  gallantry  and  honor,  quote, 
criticise,  sentimentalize,  pour  out  page  after  page 
of  inflated  rhapsody,  and  cavil  remorselessly  on 
the  ninth  part  of  a  hair.  Thus  the  so-called 
"historic"  element  in  these  romances,  is  nominal 
only.  The  heroes  and  heroines,  of  whatever 
race,  clime,  or  era,  are  only  masquerading  men 
and  women  of  seventeenth-century  France,  with 
the  ridiculous  jargon  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet 
incessantly  upon  their  lips. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  brief  description  that 
the  classical-heroic  romance  was  absolutely  arti- 
ficial and  unreal;  that  it  had,  and  pretended  to 

*  Novel-readers  will  not  need  to  be  reminded  that  the  "story- 
within-story "  device  survived  long  after  the  classical-heroic  ro- 
mance had  passed  into  oblivion.  It  is  employed,  for  instance,  by 
both  Fielding  and  Smollett,  and  traces  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  the 
earlier  work  of  Dickens,  and  in  other  writers  quite  near  our  own 
time. 

136 


English  Restoration 

have,  no  touch  or  contact  with  the  things  of 
solid  existence.  Characters,  incidents,  sentiments, 
speech  were  all  of  a  world  apart — Utopia,  Arca- 
dia, No- Man's- Land.  Life  was  not  distorted, 
as  it  is  in  the  writings  of  many  romantic  novel- 
ists and  most  of  our  modern  realists.  It  was 
simply  not  considered  at  all. 

At  the  time  when  these  ponderous  and  vapid 
productions  reached  the  climax  of  their  popu- 
larity on  their  native  soil,  French  was  well 
understood  by  the  educated  classes  in  England; 
and  it  was  in  their  original  tongue,  therefore,  that 
they  made  their  way  at  first  among  the  fellow- 
countrymen  of  Milton.  But  translations  soon 
followed  with  a  rapidity  that  bore  startling  testi- 
mony to  the  strength  of  the  new  taste.  "Polex- 
andre ' '  appeared  in  an  English  version  as  early 
as  1647;  "Ibrahim,"  "Cassandra,"  and  "Cleo- 
patre,"  in  1652;  while  "Clelie,"  "Astree," 
"Scipion,"  "Le  Grand  Cyrus"  "Zelinda,"  and 
"Almahide"  were  all  translated  and  published 
between  the  latter  date  and  1677.  On  the  heels 
of  these  regular  translations  soon  came  sundry 
imitations  which,  after  the  manner  of  imitations 
in  general,  reproduced  with  scrupulous  fidelity 
all  the  worst  features  of  the  original  works. 
"Eliana,"  issued  in  1661,  reads  almost  like  a 

137 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

burlesque  of  the  heroic  style,  and  abounds  in 
long-drawn  descriptive  passages  of  the  most 
florid  and  fantastic  kind.  Running  this  very 
close  in  overwrought  extravagance  of  theme  and 
language,  the  "Pandion  and  Amphigenia"  of 
Crowne  the  dramatist  saw  the  light  four  years 
later.  But  the  most  celebrated  of  the  English 
specimens  of  this  exotic  school  is  a  somewhat 
earlier  work  —  the  '  Tarthenissa' '  of  Roger  Boyle, 
Earl  of  Orrery;  a  production  left  incomplete 
after  reaching  more  than  eight  hundred  folio 
pages.  This  is  pronounced  by  Dunlop,  whose 
industry  and  patience  in  reading  the  romances 
of  this  period  must  have  been  litde  short  of 
superhuman,  to  be  the  best  English  specimen  of 
its  class;  and  most  of  us  will  probably  be  more 
ready  to  accept  his  judgment  than  to  undertake 
its  verification.* 

Both  "Eliana"  and  "  Parthenissa "  were 
broken  off  abruptly,  the  latter  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  its  most  interesting  situations;  and  Dun- 
lop is  probably  right  in  regarding  this  fact  as 

*  A  delightfully  witty  account  of  this  work,  and  of  the  classical- 
heroic  romance  at  large,  will  be  found  in  Jusserand's  "  English 
Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakspere,"  a  book  which  combines  with  the 
erudition  of  the  German  specialist  the  verve,  tact,  and  lucidity  of 
the  French  — qualities  which  are  commonly  to  be  sought  in  vain  in 
the  voluminous  and  too  often  chaotic  lucubrations  of  Teutonic 
scholarship. 

138 


English  Restoration 

evidence  of  the  gradual  decline  of  the  taste  out 
of  which  they  had  grown  and  to  which  they  had 
appealed.  Indeed,  so  far  as  England  was  con- 
cerned, the  classical-heroic  romance  could  not 
have  been  otherwise  than  ephemeral.  It  had  no 
real  hold  upon  English  society,  and  was  funda- 
mentally out  of  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  an  age 
in  which  chivalry  had  degenerated  into  empty 
gallantry,  and  playing  at  pastoral  simplicity  had 
ceased  to  be  an  aristocratic  amusement.  The 
temper  of  which  it  was  one  manifestation  for  a 
time  made  its  influence  deeply  felt  in  almost 
every  department  of  literature;  it  invaded  even 
poetry;  and  directly  inspired  that  extraordinary 
form  of  drama,  so  familiar  to  the  student  of  Dav- 
enant  and  Dryden — the  heroic  play.  But  the 
prose  fiction  to  which  it  gave  existence  carried 
in  its  essential  qualities  the  seeds  of  early  decay. 
It  is  true  that  in  certain  quarters  it  retained  a 
faint  and  shadowy  kind  of  reputation  longer  than 
might  have  been  expected.*  But  the  rise  of  a 
totally  different  school  of  novelists  in  the  last 

*  Translations  of  several  of  the  great  French  romances,  includ- 
ing "  Clelia,"  "  which  opened  of  itself  in  the  place  that  described 
two  lovers  in  a  bower,"  are  given  in  the  list  of  books  on  Leonora's 
shelves  ("Spectator,"  No.  37);  and  suggestive  mention  is  made  of 
"Pharamond"  and  "Cassandra"  as  late  as  1711  ("Spectator,"  No. 
92).  Mrs.  Lennox's  satire,  "  The  Female  Quixote,"  may  be  taken  to 
show  that  even  in  1752  these  works  were  still  sometimes  read. 

139 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

decades  of  the  seventeenth  century,  practically 
marks  the  close  of  its  career;  and  dying,  it  left 
no  issue. 

We  are  now  at  length  prepared  to  appreciate 
the  historic  significance  and  interest  of  what,  in  a 
rather  loose  way,  is  commonly  called  the  prose 
fiction  of  the  Restoration. 

Says  Mrs.  Manley,  in  the  introductory  address 
to  the  reader  in  her  ' '  Secret  History  of  Queen 
Zarah":  — 

"Romances  in  France  have  for  a  long  time  been 
the  diversion  and  amusement  of  the  whole  world;  the 
people  .  .  .  have  read  these  works  with  a  most  sur- 
prising greediness;  but  that  fury  is  very  much  abated, 
and  they  are  all  fallen  off  from  this  distraction.  The 
little  histories  of  this  kind  have  taken  place  [sic]  of 
romances,  whose  prodigious  number  of  volumes  were 
sufficient  to  tire  and  satiate  such  whose  heads  were 
most  filled  with  these  notions.  .  .  .  These  little  pieces 
which  have  banished  romances  are  much  more  agree- 
able to  the  brisk  and  impetuous  humor  of  the  English, 
who  have  naturally  no  taste  for  long-winded  perform- 
ances; for  they  have  no  sooner  begun  a  book  than  they 
desire  to  see  the  end  of  it." 

These  remarks  will  doubtless  strike  some  read- 
ers as  curious,  and  we  may  well  wonder  what  the 
followers  of  Taine,  particularly,  would  make  of 

140 


English  Restoration 

the  "brisk  and  impetuous  humor"  here  alleged 
to  characterize  the  English  people.  But  they  are 
valuable  to  us,  irrespective  of  their  psychology, 
because  they  enable  us  to  understand  how  the 
new  fiction — the  fiction  in  which,  despite  all 
adventitious  differences,  we  can  clearly  recognize 
the  beginnings  of  the  modern  novel — arose  to 
take  the  place  of  the  Anglo-French  romance. 
The  "little  histories"  to  which  Mrs.  Manley 
refers  grew  up  by  the  most  natural  process  of 
reaction  against  the  "prodigious  number  of  vol- 
umes" into  which,  as  we  have  noted,  the  older 
narratives  had  run.  Nor  was  it  in  measure  only 
that  a  change  was  initiated.  As  we  shall  pres- 
ently see,  the  novel  of  the  Restoration,  broadly 
so-called,  differed  from  its  predecessors  not 
merely  in  length,  but  also  in  the  more  important 
qualities  of  subject-matter,  treatment,  and  style. 
The  old  Arcadia  was  finally  forsaken  for  the  solid 
earth,  and  lengthy  descriptions,  multifarious  epi- 
sodes, wearisome  soliloquies,  and  needless  tortu- 
osities of  plot  were  at  the  same  time  left  behind. 
Real  life  now  formed  the  basis  of  the  story,  and, 
despite  occasional  reminiscences  of  the  older 
manner,  crispness  of  narration  became  one  of  the 
writers'  principal  aims. 

We  have  here  undertaken  to  consider  a  little 

141 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

this  healthy  and  significant  change  from  the 
romance  to  the  novel  in  the  writings  of  two  of  its 
representative  exponents  —  Mrs.  Behn  and  Mrs. 
Manley.  It  should  be  understood,  however,  that 
in  adopting  this  course  we  have  no  intention  of 
throwing  their  work  into  undue  prominence. 
They  were  but  part-factors  in  a  general  move- 
ment, and  must  be  contented  to  share  its  honors 
with  a  number  of  their  contemporaries.  Never- 
theless, they  possess  a  special  interest  for  the 
student  of  English  literature,  for  two  very  good 
reasons.  In  the  first  place,  taken  together,  they 
illustrate  with  remarkable  clearness  those  broader 
characteristics  of  the  new  fiction  which  it  is  our 
principal  concern  in  this  little  essay  to  bring  to 
light;  and,  secondly,  there  is  the  fact  that  they 
were  women.  It  is  surely  in  itself  instructive  to 
find  that  while  the  great  Elizabethan  drama  can 
adduce  no  example  of  a  woman-writer,  it  is  in  the 
productions  of  a  couple  of  women  that  we  can 
study  to  the  best  advantage  some  of  the  rudi- 
mentary developments  of  the  modern  novel.* 

*  Common  fairness  leads  me  to  state,  though  it  must  be  in  the 
quasi-obscurity  of  a  foot-note,  that  In  any  exhaustive  treatment  of 
the  Restoration  novel,  place  should  be  found  tor  a  third  female 
name — that  of  Swift's  "  stupid,  infamous,  scribbling  woman,"  Mrs. 
Haywood.  But  though  this  lady  produced,  between  1720  and  1730, 
a  number  of  short  stories  that  might  fittingly  be  touched  upon  here, 
her  best-known  works,  "The  History  of  Miss  Betsy  Thoughtless" 

142 


English  Restoration 

It  will  be  convenient  for  us  to  ignore  the  strict 
demands  of  chronology  and  begin  with  the  work 
of  Mrs.  Manley,  which,  though  somewhat  later  in 
date  than  Mrs.  Behn's,  may  properly  be  taken 
first,  since  it  is  at  once  cruder  in  form  and  his- 
torically of  minor  importance. 

Mrs.  De  la  Riviere  Manley  —  "poor  Mrs. 
Manley,"  as  Swift  calls  her,  in  the  "Journal  to 
Stella" — enjoyed  anything  but  a  peaceful  life. 
It  seems  to  be  an  accepted  tradition  among  biog- 
raphers of  men  and  women  of  letters  to  begin 
their  narratives  by  protesting  that  the  lives  of 
authors  seldom  furnish  exciting  materials,  and 
then  to  go  on  to  add  that  their  particular  heroes 
or  heroines  are  exceptions  to  the  general  rule. 
Certainly  Mrs.  Manley  was  an  exception,  if  rule 
indeed  it  be,  which  I  think  open  to  question. 
She  herself  has  given  us  some  account  of  her 
adventures  and  misfortunes  in  different  portions 
of  her  "New  Atalantis,"  and  more  particularly  in 
"The  History  of  Rivella" — an  autobiography 
and  apologia  pro  viid  sua — published  in  17 14, 
under  the  pseudonym  of  Sir  Charles  Lovemore. 

(1751)  and  "The  History  of  Jeremy  and  Jenny  Jessamy"  (1754)1  be- 
long to  the  times  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  and  Smollett,  and  there- 
fore to  another  school  and  period  of  fiction  entirely.  She  would 
thus  he  very  likely  to  tempt  us  too  far  afield  for  the  purposes  we 
have  here  in  view. 

143 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

There  is  no  need  for  us  to  follow  her  through  all 
her  varied  experiences,  the  record  of  which, 
though  often  lively  enough,  is  seldom  of  a  very 
improving  character.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  give 
the  briefest  outline  of  her  career. 

She  was  born  in  Guernsey  about  the  year 
1677,  her  father,  Sir  Roger  Manley,  being,  as  is 
generally  stated,  governor,  or,  as  seems  more 
probable,  deputy  governor,  of  that  island.  Ac- 
cording to  her  own  account,  she  grew  up  into  a 
sharp-witted,  impressionable  girl,  who,  receiving 
rather  more  than  an  average  education,  early 
gave  signs  of  an  intelligence  beyond  what,  at 
that  time,  was  considered  the  fair  endowment  of 
her  sex.  Her  tribulations,  too,  began  early.  Her 
parents  died  when  she  was  still  very  young,  and 
she  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  male  cousin,  who 
unfortunately  became  enamored  of  her.  The 
man  was  known  to  be  married  already,  but  he 
asserted  that  his  wife  was  dead;  and  Rivella,  de- 
ceived by  his  protestations,  entered  into  a  secret 
marriage  with  him.  The  theme  of  one  of  her 
most  unsavory  stories  seems  to  have  been  directly 
suggested  by  this  tragic  episode  in  her  own  life. 
After  a  while,  of  course,  the  truth  came  out. 
Then  her  scoundrelly  husband  abandoned  her, 
and  she  was  left  to  shift  for  herself  as  best  she 

144 


English  Restoration 

might.  About  this  time  she  gained  the  patron- 
age of  the  famous  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  one  of 
Charles  the  Second's  mistresses,  in  attendance 
upon  whom  she  remained  during  some  six 
months.  But  the  Duchess  was  a  woman  of 
fickle  temper.  She  soon  grew  tired  of  Mrs. 
Manley;  and,  by  pretending  that  she  had  dis- 
covered her  in  an  intrigue  with  her  son  (and 
there  may  possibly  have  been  more  ground  than 
poor  Rivella  admits  for  the  allegation),  found  an 
excuse  for  dismissing  her  from  her  service.  It 
was  now  that  Mrs.  Manley  appears  to  have  taken 
up  her  pen  in  earnest — and  a  very  reckless  and 
caustic  pen  it  by  and  by  turned  out  to  be.  Her 
tragedy,  "The  Royal  Mistress,"  acted  in  1696, 
proved  so  successful  that  she  found  herself 
courted  by  all  the  dandies  and  witlings  of  the 
day;  and  for  some  years,  as  a  consequence,  she 
spent  her  time  principally  in  getting  out  of  one 
intrigue  into  another.  Nevertheless,  she  found 
leisure,  amid  all  her  excitements,  to  write  and 
produce  her  ' '  Secret  Memoirs  and  Manners  of 
Several  Persons  of  Quality,  from  the  New  Ata- 
lantis" — a  work  which,  under  the  most  thinly 
disguised  names,  attacked  in  an  extremely  violent 
and  outspoken  manner  the  men  who  had  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  bringing  about  the  Revo- 

145 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

lution.  In  virtue  of  this  production  Mrs.  Man- 
ley  may  be  said  to  have  secured  the  doubtful 
honor  of  being  the  first  political  woman-writer  in 
England.  So  successful  was  the  satire  in  reach- 
ing those  for  whom  it  was  intended,  that  the 
printer  was  straightway  apprehended;  but  Mrs. 
Manley — who,  as  Swift  contemptuously  put  it, 
"had  generous  principles  for  one  of  her  sort" — 
would  not  allow  him  to  suffer  in  her  behalf.  She 
appeared  before  the  Court  of  King' s  Bench,  and 
declared  herself  solely  responsible  for  the  entire 
undertaking,  maintaining,  moreover,  "with  un- 
altered constancy,  that  the  whole  work  was  mere 
invention,  without  any  cynical  allusion  to  real 
characters."*  Mrs.  Manley,  indeed,  seems  to 
have  cared  a  great  deal  more  about  getting  her 
printer  out  of  a  scrape  than  about  sticking  too 
solemnly  to  the  simple  truth;  since,  apart 
altogether  from  the  manifestly  satirical  intention 
of  the  book,  we  know  that  she  made  its  publica- 
tion the  basis  of  a  personal  application  to  the 
ministry.  In  the  "Journal  to  Stella,"  Swift  tells 
us  how  he  afterwards  met  Mrs.  Manley  at  the 
house  of  Lord  Peterborough,  and  adds  that  she 
was  there  "soliciting  him  to  get  some  pension 
or  reward  for  her  service  in  the  cause,  by  writing 

♦  Scott's  edition  ol  Swift's  works  (1824),  vol.  il.,  p.  303,  note. 
146 


English  Restoration 

her  '  Atalantis. ' ' '  Still  we  must  frankly  admit 
that  her  loyalty  to  the  printer  in  such  a  crisis 
throws  her  character  into  a  rather  favorable  light 

However,  after  a  short  period  of  confinement, 
and  sundry  appearances  before  the  court,  Mrs. 
Manley  was  allowed  to  go  free,  and  the  matter 
dropped.  After  this  adventure,  she  produced 
several  dramatic  pieces,  wrote  some  pamphlets 
of  a  political  kind,  and  for  a  time  conducted 
"The  Examiner,"  which  had  then  been  relin- 
quished by  Swift.  Indeed,  she  appears  to  have 
remained  in  the  full  swing  of  activity  to  the  close 
of  her  life.  She  died,  aged  about  forty-seven,  in 
1724,  at  the  house  of  one  John  Barber,  an  alder- 
man of  the  City  of  London,  with  whom  it  is  sup- 
posed she  had  for  some  time  past  been  living. 

In  person,  as  she  herself  very  candidly  tells 
us,  Mrs.  Manley  was  fat,  and  her  face  had  been 
early  marked  by  that  terrible  scourge  of  the 
age,  the  smallpox;  notwithstanding  which  de- 
fects, her  fascination  of  manner  and  conversation 
was  so  great,  that  she  was  always  popular  with 
the  other  sex.  Of  her  moral  character,  perhaps, 
the  less  said  the  better.  Circumstances  had  not 
been  kind  to  Rivella;  and  at  this  distance  of 
time,  and  with  all  the  intrigues  in  which  she 
was  involved,  it  is  not  always  easy  to  say  how 

M7 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

far  she  was  sinned  against,  and  how  far  sinning, 
or  whether  her  own  statement  came  anywhere 
near  the  facts  of  the  case  when  she  boldly  de- 
clared that  "her  virtues,,  were  "her  own,  her 
vices  occasioned  by  her  misfortunes."  Still  we 
must  admit  the  truth  of  the  words  which  she 
has  put  into  the  mouth  of  D'Aumont  in  the 
"  History  of  Rivella" :  "  If  she  have  but  half 
so  much  of  the  practice  as  the  theory,  in  the  way 
of  love,  she  must  certainly  be  a  most  accom- 
plished person."  And  a  most  accomplished 
person,  after  her  own  fashion,  she  evidently 
seems  to  have  been. 

The  most  famous  of  her  writings — if  the  word 
famous  can  properly  be  used,  when  they  have  all 
passed  into  oblivion — is,  of  course,  the  "New 
Atalantis ' ' —  that  veritable  * '  cornucopia  of  scan- 
dal," as  Swift  dubbed  it  This  work  swept  its 
author  into  temporary  notoriety,  and  for  a  few 
years  was  perhaps  as  much  talked  of  and  dis- 
cussed as  any  publication  of  the  time.  But  the 
life  has  long  since  gone  out  of  its  personalities 
and  topical  allusions,  and  the  ordinary  reader  of 
English  literature,  if  he  recall  it  even  by  name, 
is  likely  to  remember  it  only  for  the  use  Pope 
makes  of  it  in  a  well-known  passage  in  "The 
Rape  of  the  Lock":— 

148 


English  Restoration 

14  Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples  twine! 
(The  victor  cried);  the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair; 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed; 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order  blaze; 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall  live! " 

But  though  this  book,  as  we  shall  hereafter 
find,  is  not  without  its  significance  for  the  stu- 
dent of  the  English  novel,  it  is  less  interesting 
and  important  from  our  point  of  view  than  "The 
Power  of  Love:  In  Seven  Examples,' '  to  which 
for  the  present  we  will  confine  our  attention. 

As  the  title  indicates,  this  volume  consists  of 
seven  separate  stories — "The  Fair  Hypocrite," 
"The  Physician's  Stratagem,"  "The  Wife's 
Resentment,"  "The  Husband's  Resentment" 
(in  two  examples),  "The  Happy  Fugitives,"  and 
"The  Perjured  Beauty."  The  keynote  of  the 
whole  collection  is  clearly  struck  in  the  following 
passage  from  the  first-mentioned  of  the  tales:  — 

"Of  all  those  passions  which  may  be  said  to  tyran- 
nize over  the  heart  of  man,  love  is  not  only  the  most 
violent,  but  the  most  persuasive.  ...  A  lover  esteems 
nothing  difficult  in  the  pursuit  of  his  desires.  It  is  then 
that  fame,  honor,  chastity,  and  glory  have  no  longer 

149 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

their  due  estimation,  even  in  the  most  virtuous  breast. 
When  love  truly  seizes  the  heart,  it  is  like  a  malignant 
fever  which  thence  disperses  itself  through  all  the  sen- 
sible parts;  the  poison  preys  upon  the  vitals,  and  is 
only  extinguished  by  death;  or  by  as  fatal  a  cure,  the 
accomplishment  of  its  own  desires." 

The  ' '  love ' '  shadowed  forth  in  these  sentences 
is  that  which  dominates  each  of  the  seven  "  Ex- 
amples ' '  in  this  little  book,  which  are  thus  only- 
variations  on  a  single  persistent  theme.  It  is  the 
merest  animal  passion  —  passion  unrefined  by- 
sentiment,  uncolored  by  emotion;  the  love  of 
Etheridge  and  Wycherley.  Upon  the  gratifica- 
tion of  this  in  a  licit,  or,  as  frequently  happens, 
in  an  illicit  way,  the  plot  is,  with  the  monotony 
of  a  modern  French  novel,  everywhere  made  to 
turn.  The  heroes  of  her  stories  are  all,  like  Mr. 
Slye,  in  the  author's  Father  amusing  sketch,  the 
" Stage- Coach  Journey  to  Exeter,"  "naturally 
amorous ' ' ;  her  heroines,  like  the  Fair  Princess 
in  "The  Happy  Fugitives,"  are  one  and  all 
"born  under  an  amorous  constellation,"  and 
like  her,  are  forever  "floating  on  the  tempestu- 
ous sea  of  passion,  guided  by  a  master  who  is 
too  often  pleased  with  the  shipwreck  of  those 
whom  he  conducts."  So  violent  are  the  experi- 
ences portrayed  that  we  can  hardly  avoid  the 

150 


English  Restoration 

thought  that  Mrs.  Manley  must  have  adhered  in 
practice  to  the  maxim  of  "Astrophel  and  Stella' ' 
— "Look  in  thy  heart,  and  write," — and  must 
have  gone  straight  to  some  of  the  stormiest  epi- 
sodes of  her  own  career  for  the  pictures  which 
she  gives  us.  Passion  and  gratification  —  these, 
then,  are  the  regular  ingredients  of  her  stories. 
Of  the  larger  and  finer  influence  of  love;  of  its 
strengthening  and  ennobling  power;  of  the  way 
in  which  its  subtle  mastery  will  work  through 
life,— 

"  Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words, 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man," — 

of  all  these  things,  familiar  enough,  fortunately, 
to  the  reader  of  modern  fiction,  we  have  scarcely 
a  trace.  So  far  as  the  influence  of  love  is  shown 
at  all,  it  is  consistently  shown  as  a  debasing  influ- 
ence. This  point,  clearly  set  forth  in  the  quota- 
tion already  made,  may  be  illustrated  from  the 
record  of  the  writer's  own  life.  In  the  "History 
of  Rivella,"  she  tells  us  that,  when  quite  a  girl, 
she  was  infatuated  with  a  handsome  young  sol- 
dier who,  when  the  gaming-tables  were  brought 
out,  found,  to  his  embarrassment,  that  he  had  no 
money  to   play   with.      Noticing   this,    Rivella 

151 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

went  to  her  father's  drawer,  stole  some  money, 
and  gave  it  to  him.  Now,  mark  the  author's 
commentary  upon  the  action:  "Being  perfectly 
just,"  she  says,  "by  nature,  principle,  and  edu- 
cation, nothing  but  love,  and  that  in  a  high 
degree,  could  have  made  her  otherwise."  Here 
we  have,  then,  a  fair  expression  of  the  kind  of 
love  which  is  presented  to  us  in  these  "Ex- 
amples." A  despotic  animal  appetite,  un- 
checked in  its  fierce,  impulsive  play  by  any 
nobler  considerations  whatever,  it  drives  human 
nature  downward,  captive  and  slave  to  the  "fury 
passions"  which  civilization  has  been  struggling 
to  bring  under  partial  control. 

These  seven  stories,  therefore,  are  anything 
but  pleasant  reading,  unless  they  be,  like  certain 
incidents  referred  to  in  the  "New  Atalantis," 
"pleasant  ...  to  the  ears  of  the  vicious."  It 
is  not  only  that  they  are  repulsive  because  of  the 
undisguised  licentiousness  that  everywhere  pre- 
vails in  them;  they  are  occasionally  disgusting 
on  account  of  the  large  part  played  by  the 
merely  horrible.  So  intimately  related  are  une- 
motionalized  passion  and  utter  brutality,  that,  as 
might  be  expected,  here,  where  the  one  is  so 
conspicuous,  the  other  has  considerable  place. 
The  revenge  taken  by  the  woman   upon    her 

152 


English  Restoration 

worthless  husband  in  "  The  Wife's  Resentment' ' 
(Did  recollection  of  her  own  wrongs  add  bitter- 
ness to  Rivella's  pen,  we  may  well  wonder?) 
may  be  cited  as  an  example  of  this.  Don  Rod- 
erigo,  a  Spanish  gentleman,  after  trying  for  fifteen 
months  to  seduce  a  poor  girl  named  Violenta, 
marries  her  in  a  moment  of  thoughtlessness,  but 
keeps  the  marriage  a  secret  from  his  friends. 
Before  long  he  is  forced  by  his  family  into  a 
second  and  public  union  with  a  wealthy  heiress. 
The  news  of  his  inconstancy  fills  Violenta  with 
delirious  passion;  and  nothing  will  appease  her 
but  revenge,  sudden  and  complete.  She  decoys 
Roderigo  into  her  apartment,  murders  him  while 
he  is  asleep,  and,  not  contented  with  this,  delib- 
erately tears  out  his  eyes  and  mangles  "his  body 
all  over  with  an  infinite  number  of  gashes" 
before  throwing  it  out  into  the  street.  And  what 
is  particularly  noteworthy  is,  that  the  narrator 
herself  does  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  impressed 
by  the  loathsome  details  accumulated  in  her 
description.  She  reports  the  incident  as  though 
it  were  a  matter  of  course,  and  quietly  tells  us 
that  when  Violenta  was  brought  to  justice  for 
her  crime,  the  duke,  the  magistrates,  and  all  the 
spectators  were  amazed  "at  the  courage  and 
magnanimity  of  the  maid,  and  that  one  of  so 

153 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

little  rank  should  have  so  great  a  sense  of  her 
dishonor." 

Unquestionably  the  most  pleasing  of  all  these 
stories,  alike  from  a  literary  and  from  a  moral 
standpoint,  is  "The  Happy  Fugitives,"  a  simple 
tale,  containing  comparatively  little  to  which 
exception  could  be  taken.  The  plots  of  "The 
Physician's  Stratagem"  and  "The  Perjured 
Beauty,"  on  the  other  hand,  are  too  hideous  to 
be  reproduced.  As  a  whole,  the  book  is  despe- 
rately dull  and  tiresome;  for  the  pornographic 
horrors  of  its  pages  are  unredeemed  by  any 
excellencies  of  style.  Its  only  interest  for  us 
here,  therefore,  is  an  historic  one;  and  about  this 
side  of  the  matter,  we  shall  have  a  general  word 
or  two  to  say  later  on. 

If,  morally  considered,  she  is  equally  open  to 
stricture,  our  second  woman-novelist,  Mrs.  Behn, 
at  least  bulks  out  as  a  more  considerable  figure 
in  the  annals  of  English  letters.  Highly  eulo- 
gized by  some  of  the  most  distinguished  of  her 
contemporaries — Dry  den,  Otway,  and  South- 
erne  among  the  number, — she  must  still  be 
spoken  of  with  the  respect  due  to  her  undoubted 
talents,  versatility,  industry,  and  courage.  That 
she  is  to  be  regarded  as  "an  honor  and  glory" 

154 


English  Restoration 

to  her  sex,  as  one  of  her  enthusiastic  admirers 
roundly  declared,  it  would  now,  for  many  rea- 
sons, be  out  of  the  question  to  maintain.  But 
the  one  fact  that  she  was  the  first  woman  of  her 
country  to  support  herself  entirely  by  the  pen, 
itself  establishes  her  right  to  a  certain  place  in 
the  long  line  of  female  writers  who  have  since 
her  day  done  so  much  for  literature. 

Aphra  (or  Aphara)  Johnson,  afterwards  Behn, 
(known  as  the  "  Divine  Astrsea"  in  the  exube- 
rant language  of  the  time,*  and  long  commonly 
referred  to  as  an  "  extraordinary  woman,  "f)  was 
born  towards  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
First.  While  still  a  girl,  she  was  taken  to  the 
West  Indies  by  her  father,  who  had  been  ap- 
pointed lieutenant-general  of  Surinam.  J  John- 
son himself  "died  at  sea,  and  never  arrived  to 

♦This  is  the  name  under  which  Mrs.  Behn  enters  the  satire 
of  Pope:  — 

"  The  stage  how  loosely  doth  Astrsea  tread !  " 
The  second  line  of  the  couplet  may  be  left  unquoted. 

t  See  "  Apotheosis  of  Milton  "  in  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine," 
for  1738  (vol.  viii.,  p.  469). 

X  This,  according  to  Mr.  Gosse  ("  Dictionary  of  National  Biogra- 
phy ")  was  "  a  relative  whom  she  called  her  father."  Mrs.  Behn  cer- 
tainly does  speak  of  him  as  her  father  in  "  Oroonoko."  And  in  the 
Life,  "  by  one  of  the  Fair  Sex,"  prefixed  to  the  first  collected  edition 
of  her  works,  we  read  :  "  Her  father's  name  was  Johnson,  whose 
relation  to  the  Lord  Willoughby,  drew  him,  for  the  advantageous 

155 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

possess  the  honor  designed  him."  But  the 
family  settled  in  the  colony — a  "land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey,"  they  are  said  to  have 
found  it, — and  continued  to  reside  there  till 
about  1658.  A  high-colored  description  of  her 
life  abroad  is  given  in  her  best-known  work,  as 
it  was  during  this  period  that  she  made  her 
hero's  acquaintance,  and  became  interested  in 
the  story  of  his  love  and  tragic  fate.  It  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  tendencies  of  the  age  that  her 
biographer  should  feel  it  necessary  to  pause  at 
this  point  in  her  narrative  to  contradict  some 
current  town  gossip  about  the  kind  of  relation- 
ship which  had  existed  between  Astraea  and  the 
African  prince.  Returning  to  England,  she  mar- 
ried a  man  named  Behn,  who  seems  to  have  been 
"a  merchant  in  the  city,  tho'  of  Dutch  extrac- 
tion," but  concerning  whom  our  information  is 
of  the  most  meagre  sort.  Of  him  we  hear  litde 
or  nothing  in  connection  with  Aphra's  subse- 
quent adventurous  career;  and  she  was  a  widow 
before  1666.  Attached  to  the  court  of  Charles 
the  Second,  she  attracted  so  much  attention,  we 
are  told,  by  her  keenness  of  intellect,  alertness, 

post  of  Lieu  tenant-General  of  many  isles,  besides  the  continent  of 
Surinam,  from  his  quiet  retreat  at  Canterbury  to  run  the  hazardous 
voyage  of  the  West  Indies."  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  source  and 
origin  of  Mr.  Gosse's  implied  doubt. 

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and  wit,  that  she  was  employed  by  the  Merry 
Monarch  in  some  delicate  diplomatic  affairs  dur- 
ing the  Dutch  war.  These  took  her  to  Antwerp 
in  the  character  of  a  spy,  in  which  capacity  she 
succeeded  so  well  that  in  course  of  time,  and  by 
means  principally  of  her  innumerable  love  in- 
trigues, she  obtained  possession  of  some  secrets 
of  considerable  value.  "They  are  mistaken  who 
imagine  that  a  Dutchman  can't  love,"  remarks 
her  biographer,  in  commenting  upon  these  inci- 
dents; "for  tho'  they  are  generally  more  phleg- 
matic than  other  men,  yet  it  sometimes  happens 
that  love  does  penetrate  their  lump  and  dispense 
an  enlivening  fire," — now  and  then  with  disas- 
trous results,  as  we  perceive.  Her  information, 
however,  was  neglected  by  the  English  Govern- 
ment, and  in  disgust  the  patriotic  lady  threw  up 
politics  and  diplomacy  altogether,  and  presently 
returned  to  London,  narrowly  escaping  death 
by  shipwreck  on  the  way. 

Once  more  in  London,  Mrs.  Behn,  now  thrown 
entirely  upon  her  own  resources,  turned  to  her 
pen  for  the  means  of  support,  and  thenceforth 
continued  to  occupy  herself  with  literature  and 
pleasure  till  her  death,  in  1689.  Say  what  one 
may  about  the  general  quality  of  her  work,  its 
total  amount  remains  remarkable,  especially  when 

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Two  Novelists  of  the 

one  takes  into  consideration  the  conditions  of 
poverty,  failing  health,  and  many  harassing  dis- 
tractions under  which  it  was  produced.  For  a 
number  of  years,  with  unabated  industry  but 
varying  success,  she  poured  out  plays  which 
were  calculated,  in  style  and  morality,  to  hit  the 
prevailing, taste;  and  so  boldly  did  she  meet  her 
masculine  rivals  on  the  common  ground  of  licen- 
tiousness, that  she  earned  for  herself  the  highly 
significant  nickname  of  "the  female  Wycher- 
ley."  Miscellaneous  tracts  and  translations  kept 
her  busy  in  the  intervals  of  dramatic  activity, 
during  which  time  she  also  threw  off  a  couple  of 
very  curious  treatises,  the  characters  of  which  are 
perhaps  sufficiently  indicated  by  their  titles  — 
"The  Lover's  Watch;  or,  The  Art  of  Making 
Love,"  and  "The  Lady's  Looking-Glass  to 
Dress  Herself  by;  or,  The  Whole  Art  of  Charm- 
ing All  Mankind."  As  manuals  of  conduct,  it 
is  to  be  feared  that  these  lucubrations  hardly 
tend  to  edification. 

Finally,  to  leave  out  for  the  moment  what  is, 
of  course,  for  us  now  the  most  important  item, 
her  experiments  in  fiction,  which  we  will  deal 
with  by  themselves,  Mrs.  Behn  also  managed  to 
write  and  publish  a  good  deal  of  verse.  As  work 
actually  done,  this  must  be  mentioned,  because 

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it  swells  her  account;  but  it  may  be  said  at  once 
that  most  of  it  —and  particularly  her  one  ambi- 
bitious  effort,  the  allegorical  "Voyage  to  the  Isle 
of  Love," — is  without  value  or  interest.  Here 
and  there  in  her  plays,  however,  she  touches  a 
true  poetic  note,  as  in  the  really  fine  song  in 
u  Abdelazer,"  for  which  —  though  it  is  doubtless 
familiar  to  readers  of  the  anthologies — space 
may  be  found  here:  — 

"Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sate, 

Whilst  bleeding  hearts  about  him  flowed, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create, 

And  strange  tyrannic  power  he  showed; 
From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires, 

Which  round  about  in  space  he  hurled; 
But 't  was  from  mine  he  took  desires 

Enough  to  undo  the  amorous  world. 

"From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty, 
From  me  his  languishment  and  fears, 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee; 
Thus  thou  and  I  the  god  have  armed, 

And  set  him  up  a  deity, 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harmed, 

While  thine  the  victor  is,  and  free." 

Her  biographer  tells  us  that  Mrs.  Behn  "was 
a  woman  of  sense,  and  by  consequence  [mark 
the  consquence!]  a  lover  of  pleasure;  as  indeed," 

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Two  Novelists  of  the 

it  is  added,  "all,  both  men  and  women,  are," 
though  "some  would  be  thought  above  the  con- 
ditions of  humanity,  and  place  their  chief  pleasure 
in  a  proud,  vain  hypocrisy. ' '  It  needs  hardly  to 
be  said  here  that  I  am  not  at  all  concerned  to 
defend  the  character  of  Astrsea's  life  or  the  tone 
of  her  writings;  and  at  this  time  of  day  any 
denunciation  of  the  one  or  the  other  would  sure- 
ly be  a  work  of  supererogation.  But  we  should 
at  least  try  to  be  fair  in  our  judgments;  and  if  the 
very  flattering  description  given  "by  one  of  the 
fair  sex"  who  "knew  her  intimately"  is  even 
approximately  correct,  she  must  have  been 
generous,  frank,  and  thoroughly  good-hearted. 
These  are  not  bad  qualities  in  a  world  which  in 
practice  knows  only  too  little  about  them,  though 
we  might  hesitate  to  add,  with  her  anonymous 
friend,  that,  being  thus  endowed,  "she  was,  I  'm 
satisfied,  a  greater  honor  to  our  sex  than  all  the 
canting  tribe  of  dissemblers  that  die  with  the 
false  reputation  of  saints. ' '  So  far  as  her  writ- 
ings themselves  are  concerned,  it  has  only  to  be 
said  that  when  she  found  herself  dependent  for  a 
livelihood  upon  her  talents  and  industry,  she  took 
what  seemed  to  be  the  shortest  and  easiest  way 
open  to  success,  and  undertook  to  produce  just 
what  the  reading  public  of  her  day  was  most 

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willing  to  pay  for  —  and  the  reading  public  of  her 
day  was  unfortunately  ready  to  pay  highest  for 
the  most  wanton  and  scandalous  things.  Herein 
she  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  majori- 
ty of  her  contemporaries  who,  like  her,  wielded 
the  professional  pen,  though  the  fact  that  she  was 
a  woman  undoubtedly  adds  heinousness  to  her 
offences  against  the  ordinary  decencies  of  life. 
"Let  any  one  of  common  sense  and  reason," 
she  says  in  her  own  defence — and  the  circum- 
stance that,  like  Dryden  and  others,  she  was 
driven  into  explanation  and  apology  is  note- 
worthy,— "read  one  of  my  comedies,  and  com- 
pare it  with  others  of  this  age;  and  if  they  can 
find  one  word  which  can  offend  the  chastest  ear, 
I  will  submit  to  all  their  peevish  cavils."  This  is 
the  familiar  argument— However  bad  I  may  be, 
my  neighbors  are  a  trifle  worse.  I  should  be 
very  sorry,  for  Mrs.  Behn's  sake,  to  take  up  her 
challenge;  sorrier  for  my  own  to  have  it  sup- 
posed that  what  has  been  said  above  was  said 
in  the  way  of  palliation  or  excuse.  Mrs.  Behn 
wrote  foully;  and  this  for  most  of  us,  and  very 
properly,  is  an  end  of  the  whole  discussion.  But 
it  is  as  idle  in  these  matters  of  sentiment,  taste, 
expression,  as  it  is  elsewhere,  to  ignore  in  any 
final  judgment  the  subtle  but  profound  influence 

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Two  Novelists  of  the 

of  the  time-spirit;  and  though  we  may  regret 
that  such  a  distinction  should  have  to  be  made, 
we  must  still,  in  common  fairness,  remember  that 
Mrs.  Behn  was  a  woman  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  not  of  our  own  generation.* 

But  we  must  now  turn  to  her  novels  —  her 
"incomparable  novels,"  as  they  used  to  be 
called.  The  collected  edition  of  1705,  contain- 
ing, according  to  its  own  statement,  "All  the 
Histories    and    Novels   Written    by    the    Late 

*  How  vast  was  the  change  in  taste  between,  say,  the  opening 
and  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  is  shown  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  an  anecdote  which  has  special  interest  for  us  here,  as  bear- 
ing directly  upon  the  woman  now  in  question.  A  grand-aunt  of 
his,  Mrs.  Keith,  of  Ravelstone,  towards  the  close  of  a  very  long  life, 
asked  Scott  if  he  had  ever  seen  Mrs.  Behn's  novels.  "  I  confessed 
the  charge.  Whether  I  could  get  her  a  sight  of  them  ?—  I  said,  with 
some  hesitation,  I  believed  I  could ;  but  that  I  did  not  think  she 
would  like  either  the  manners  or  the  language,  which  approached 
too  near  that  of  Charles  the  Second's  time  to  be  quite  proper  read- 
ing. '  Nevertheless,'  said  the  good  old  lady,  '  I  remember  them 
being  so  much  admired,  and  being  so  interested  in  them  myself, 
that  I  wish  to  look  at  them  again.'  To  hear  was  to  obey.  So  I 
sent  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn,  curiously  sealed  up,  with  '  private  and  con- 
fidential '  on  the  packet,  to  my  gay  old  grand-aunt.  The  next  time 
I  saw  her  afterwards,  she  gave  me  back  Aphra,  properly  wrapped 
up,  with  merely  these  words :  *  Take  back  your  bonny  Mrs.  Behn ; 
and,  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  put  her  in  the  fire,  for  I  found  it 
impossible  to  get  through  the  very  first  novel.  But  is  it  not,'  she 
said,  'a  very  odd  thing  that  I,  an  old  woman  of  eighty  and  up- 
wards, sitting  alone,  feel  myself  ashamed  to  read  a  book  which, 
sixty  years  ago,  I  have  heard  read  aloud  for  the  amusement  of 
large  circles,  consisting  of  the  first  and  most  creditable  society  in 
London ! '  "    (See  Lockhart's  Scott,  chap,  liv.) 

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English  Restoration 

Ingenious  Mrs.  Behn,"  includes,  besides  the  two 
treatises  to  which  reference  has  been  made,  the 
following  stories:  "The  History  of  Oroonoko; 
or,  The  Royal  Slave,"  "The  Fair  Jilt,"  "The 
Nun,"  "Agnes  de  Castro,"  "The  Lucky  Mis- 
take, "  "  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  the  King  of 
Bantam,"  and  "The  Adventure  of  the  Black 
Lady." 

The  first-mentioned  of  these — "Oroonoko," 
the  novel  with  which  Mrs.  Behn's  name  is  to-day 
almost  exclusively  associated — is  from  every 
point  of  view  by  far  the  most  interesting  of  her 
works.  It  represents  the  first  really  noteworthy 
experiment  in  the  fiction  of  the  time  to  descend 
from  the  misty  realms  of  the  old  romance  to  the 
plain  ground  of  actual  life.  The  history — which, 
as  Miss  Kavanagh  has  said,  "is  the  only  one  of 
her  tales  that,  spite  of  all  its  defects,  can  still  be 
read  with  entertainment"* — was  written  at  the 
special  request  of  Charles  the  Second,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Behn,  on  her  return  from  the  West  Indies, 
had  given  "so  pleasant  and  rational  an  account 
of  his  affairs  there,  and  particularly  of  the  mis- 
fortunes of  Oroonoko,  that  he  desired  her  to  de- 
liver them  publicly  to  the  world. ' '  The  narrative 
is,  indeed,  represented  by  the  author  as  a  direct 

*"  English  Women  of  Letters,"  vol.  i.,  p.  31. 
163 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

transcript  from  her  own  experiences.  "  I  was," 
she  says,  ' '  myself  an  eye-witness  to  a  great  part 
of  what  you  will  here  find  set  down;  and  what 
I  could  not  be  witness  of,  I  received  from  the 
mouth  of  the  chief  actor  in  this  history,  the 
hero  himself." 

The  motive  of  the  story  is  the  tragedy  of 
Oroonoko' s  life,  and  this  is  worked  out  simply, 
but  with  a  good  deal  of  power.  The  grand- 
son of  an  African  king,  and  a  youth  of  great 
strength,  courage,  and  intelligence,  Oroonoko 
early  becomes  enamored  of  Imoinda — * '  a  beauty, 
that  to  describe  her  truly,  one  need  only  say  she 
was  female  to  the  noble  male," — but  to  whom, 
unfortunately,  his  grandfather  also  takes  a  fancy. 
The  young  people  are  secretly  married;  notwith- 
standing which,  the  old  king  has  the  girl  carried 
to  his  palace  and  placed  among  his  mistresses. 
In  desperation,  the  husband  makes  his  way  by 
night  to  Imoinda' s  chamber.  Here  he  is  dis- 
covered by  the  king's  guards;  Imoinda  is  sold 
into  slavery;  and  after  a  while  Oroonoko  shares 
the  same  fate — "a  lion  taken  in  a  toil."  By 
a  remarkable  coincidence,  they  are  brought  at 
length  to  the  same  place  —  the  colony  where 
Aphra  and  her  family  were  then  living.  Thus 
unexpectedly  reunited  to  the  woman   he  had 

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deemed  lost  to  him  forever,  Oroonoko  is  for  a 
time  contented  with  his  lot;  but  presently,  grow- 
ing weary  of  captivity,  he  plans  a  revolt  among 
the  slaves,  upon  the  suppression  of  which  he  is 
brutally  punished.  After  this  he  escapes  to  the 
woods  with  his  young  wife,  whose  fidelity  and 
never-failing  devotion  are  very  touchingly  set 
forth.  Then  comes  the  final  tragedy.  Dreading 
that  she  may  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  whites,  he 
deliberately  and  with  her  full  consent,  murders 
her;  and  after  remaining  for  several  days  half- 
insensible  beside  her  corpse,  he  is  again  taken 
by  the  colonists,  and  hacked  to  pieces  limb  by 
limb.     With  his  death,  the  simple  story  ends. 

Now,  in  the  first  and  casual  reading  of  this 
novel,  we  may  very  probably  be  struck  rather 
by  its  points  of  similarity  to  the  older  romances 
than  by  its  qualities  of  essential  difference  from 
them.  For  Mrs.  Behn  frequently  adopts  the 
heroic,  or  "big  bow-wow"  strain,  especially  in 
her  sentimental  situations,  and  where  she  desires 
to  be  particularly  effective.  Her  language  is  often 
stilted  and  conventional,  and  there  are  occasions 
when  we  are  more  than  half- convinced  that  Sur- 
inam is,  after  all,  only  another  way  of  spelling 
Arcadia.  But  further  study  of  the  work  will 
convince  us  that  we  must  not  attach  too  much 

165 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

importance  to  what  are  really  superficial  char- 
acteristics. In  the  deeper  matters  of  substance 
and  purpose,  the  story  belongs  not  to  the  old 
school  of  fiction,  but  to  the  new;  and  that  Mrs. 
Behn  herself  understood  what  she  was  about,  is, 
I  think,  made  clear  by  what  she  says  in  the 
opening  paragraph:  — 

"  I  do  not  pretend,  in  giving  you  the  history  of  this 
royal  slave,  to  entertain  my  reader  with  the  adven- 
tures of  a  feigned  hero,  whose  life  and  fortunes  fancy 
may  manage  at  the  poet's  pleasure;  nor  in  relating  the 
truth,  design  to  adorn  it  with  any  accidents,  but  such 
as  arrived  in  earnest  to  him.  And  it  shall  come  simply 
into  the  world,  recommended  by  its  own  proper  merits 
and  natural  intrigues;  there  being  enough  of  reality  to 
support  it,  and  to  render  it  diverting,  without  the  addi- 
tion of  invention." 

Two  points,  then,  are  noticeable  in  this  work. 
In  the  first  place,  it  depends  for  its  interest  not 
on  astonishing  adventures,  high-flown  diction,  or 
extravagant  play  of  fancy,  but  simply  on  the 
sterling  humanity  of  the  narrative.  The  unfor- 
tunate hero  and  his  wife  are,  of  course,  drawn 
upon  the  heroic  scale,  but  they  still  possess  the 
solid  traits  of  real  manhood  and  womanhood, 
and,  applying  the  supreme  test  in  all  such  cases, 
we  find  that  we  can  believe  in  them.  The  chasm 
which  separates   such   an  achievement  as   this 

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English  Restoration 

from  the  windy  sentimentalities  of  the  Anglo- 
French  romance  is  a  very  wide  one;  and  Mrs. 
Behn's  boldness  of  innovation  was,  therefore,  the 
more  remarkable.  In  the  second  place,  ' '  Oroo- 
noko"  is  written  with  a  well-defined  didactic 
aim.  It  is  a  novel  with  a  purpose  —  the  remote 
forerunner  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,' '  and  the 
whole  modern  school  of  ethical  fiction.  Thus, 
together  with  a  marked  tendency  towards  real- 
ism, Mrs.  Behn's  book  exhibits  a  no  less  marked 
bias  in  the  direction  of  practical  teaching.  Its 
historic  significance  is  therefore  twofold.* 

Mrs.  Behn's  other  tales  show  less  originality, 
and  are  neither  so  attractive  nor  so  valuable. 
They  are  short  love-stories  which,  though  not  so 
radically  and  aggressively  impure  as  her  plays, 
are  still  tainted  through  and  through  by  the  pre- 
vailing grossness  of  the  time.  Like  Mrs.  Man- 
ley,  Mrs.  Behn  makes  mere  physical  appetite — 

♦Another  matter  of  curious  interest  in  connection  with  "  Oroo- 
noko"  calls  for  passing  mention,  though  too  far  removed  from  our 
special  subject  to  detain  us  here.  This  is  the  remarkable  way  in 
which,  in  its  presentation  of  the  "  noble  savage,"  and  the  inno- 
cence, purity,  and  high  moral  character  of  the  "  natural  man,"  the 
story  anticipates  Rousseau  and  the  later  romanticists.  Jusserand, 
who  points  this  out,  goes  so  iar  as  to  say  that  Mrs.  Behn  "  carries 
us  at  once  beyond  the  times  of  Defoe,  Richardson,  and  Fielding,  and 
takes  us  among  the  precursors  of  the  French  Revolution."  It  may 
be  added  that,  in  the  hands  of  "  Honest  Tom  Southerne,"  the  story 
of  Oroonoko  became  a  successful  play. 

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Two  Novelists  of  the 

the  passion  which  "  rages  beyond  the  inspira- 
tions of  a  god  all  soft  and  gentle,  and  reigns 
more  like  a  fury  from  hell"* — the  turning- 
point  of  all  her  plots;  like  Mrs.  Manley,  she 
centres  the  entire  interest  of  her  narratives  in 
the  gratification,  not  in  the  influences,  of  this 
passion.  Like  Mrs.  Manley,  too, — and  here  the 
severest  judgment  might  well  pass  unprotest- 
ed,— she  is  as  harsh  and  free-spoken  as  the  most 
profligate  of  male  cynics  regarding  the  foibles  of 
her  own  sex.  Vain,  selfish,  salacious,  intriguing, 
spiteful,  her  female  figures,  as  a  whole,  are  simply 
repulsive  in  their  unqualified  animality;  and  as 
we  read  of  their  lives  and  their  doings,  we  no 
longer  wonder  at  the  open  savagery  of  a  Wych- 
erley,  or  the  undisguised  contempt  of  a  Con- 
greve,  in  an  age  when  a  woman  could  thus  write 
of  women,  without  fear,  almost  without  reproach. 
Finally,  like  Mrs.  Manley,  Mrs.  Behn  is  ready  at 
times  to  indulge  not  only  in  scenes  of  the  utmost 
coarseness,  but  also  in  pictures  of  the  most  re- 
volting brutality.  An  instance  of  this  might  be 
given  from  "The  Fair  Jilt,"  where  the  unskilful 
execution  of  Tarquin  is  detailed  with  horrible 
minuteness.  The  best  of  these  shorter  stories  is 
"The  Lucky  Mistake,"  a  tale  written  throughout 

*  "  The  Fair  Jilt." 

1 68 


English  Restoration 

with  comparatively  good  taste.  They  are  nearly 
all  based  on  fact — many  on  direct  observation; 
and  this  renders  them,  from  a  student's  point  of 
view,  interesting.  But  there  is  a  great  sameness 
in  the  incidents  described,  and  on  the  side  of 
characterization  they  are  very  weak  indeed.  The 
plots  are  all  made  up  out  of  the  same  classes  of 
material;  and  the  men  and  women  of  any  one 
story  are  hardly  to  be  distinguished  otherwise 
than  by  name  from  those  of  any  other. 

And  now,  in  returning  to  the  question  of  the 
historic  significance  of  the  two  writers  into  whose 
books  —  habitually  allowed  to  stand  undisturbed 
upon  the  library  shelf — we  have  here  rather 
rashly  ventured  to  pry,  we  shall  find,  if  I  mistake 
not,  that  little  remains  to  be  said.  Brief  as  our 
analysis  of  the  heroic  romances  and  the  tales  of 
Mrs.  Behn  and  Mrs.  Manley  has  necessarily  been, 
it  will,  if  it  does  not  fail  entirely  of  its  purpose, 
suffice  to  mark  the  points  of  fundamental  con- 
trast between  them.  The  nature  and  importance 
of  the  changes  exemplified  in  these  story-tellers 
of  the  Restoration  will  thus  be  made  clear. 

Hitherto,  as  we  have  seen,  fiction  had  made 
little  or  no  attempt  to  deal  frankly  with  life.  In 
other  words,  it  had  not  as  yet  found  its  proper 

169 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

sphere.  Purely  a  thing  of  the  imagination,  it 
had  sought  its  subjects  afar,  proudly  ignoring  the 
common  matters  of  the  world  —  the  joys  and 
sorrows,  the  hopes  and  struggles  of  every-day 
humanity.  The  words  which  the  author  of  a 
life  of  Sidney,  prefixed  to  one  of  the  early  edi- 
tions of  the  "Arcadia,"  applies  to  that  work,  we 
might  with  equal  fairness  apply  to  almost  the 
entire  mass  of  fiction  thus  far  written.  "The 
invention  is  wholly  spun  out  of  the  fancy,"  he 
says.  The  scene  was  laid  in  some  far-away 
dreamland,  not  the  less  remote  and  visionary 
because  occasionally  called  by  a  familiar  earthly 
name;  the  characters  were  swollen  out  to  super- 
human proportions,  and  were  endowed  with 
qualities  that  no  mortal  being  has  ever  been 
known  to  possess;  their  adventures  were  on  the 
face  of  them  impossible;  they  thought,  acted, 
talked  as  no  man  or  woman  had  thought,  acted, 
talked  since  the  world  began.  Life  and  fiction 
stood  entirely  apart.  The  real  world  of  tangible 
flesh  and  blood  found  for  the  time  its  only  ex- 
pression in  the  drama.  In  fiction  there  was  as 
yet  no  human  interest  whatever. 

With  Mrs.  Behn  commenced  the  tendency  to 
deal  with  life — to  make  the  novel  in  some  sense 
a  reproduction  of  actual  experience.     We  may 

170 


English  Restoration 

regret  that  the  special  phases  of  the  human 
comedy  that  she  deliberately  chose  to  write 
about,  were  only  too  often  phases  the  least 
worthy  of  attention;  that  her  interests  were  nar- 
rowed down,  and  her  work  crippled,  by  con- 
siderations of  the  most  cramping  and  disastrous 
kinds;  that  she  knew  nothing  of  proportion  and 
perspective,  and  little  of  the  higher  and  finer 
developments  of  motive  and  character;  that  she 
could  not  see  life  steadily,  and  did  not  see  it 
whole.  But  all  this  must  not  stand  in  the  way 
of  our  insisting  that  she  was  one  of  the  first 
writers  of  prose  fiction  —  perhaps  the  first  in 
England — to  substitute  the  solid  stuff  of  reality 
for  the  flimsy  material  of  the  imagination.  Crude 
and  partial  as  her  observations  were,  she  at  least 
observed;  sorry  as  are  most  of  the  results  of  her 
study  of  the  world,  she  did  study  it  at  first 
hand  —  did  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  What 
she  accomplished  in  thus  opening  up  the  field  of 
the  modern  novel,  what  Mrs.  Manley  accom- 
plished in  following  her  lead,  are  matters,  there- 
fore, of  sufficient  importance  to  call  for  distinct 
recognition.  We  do  not  claim  for  the  books  of 
these  two  women  any  individual  merit  or  interest. 
But  when  we  lay  aside  one  of  their  stories,  bear- 
ing in  mind  the  conditions  of  the  time  at  which 

171 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

it  was  written,  we  realize  that,  artistically,  if  not 
always  morally,  they  represent  a  step  in  advance; 
that  it  was  by  such  work  as  this  —  poor  and  hope- 
lessly dull  as  it  may  seem  to  us  to-day — that  the 
folios  of  La  Calprenede  and  De  Scuderi  were 
overthrown,  the  way  made  clear  for  Defoe  and 
Richardson,  and  the  foundations  of  modern 
fiction  firmly  laid. 

But  now  let  us  notice  the  suggestive  circum- 
stance that,  like  nearly  all  innovators,  these  first 
realists  seriously  overstepped  the  mark.  In  their 
early  attempts  to  exchange  Fairy  Land  for  the 
actual  world,  we  find  too  large  a  place  given  to 
fact,  in  the  most  hard  and  circumscribed  sense 
of  the  word.  In  place  of  pure  fancy,  they 
sought  to  give  absolute  and  undiluted  reality;  in 
place  of  a  picture  without  existing  counterpart, 
they  strove  to  secure  the  detailed  verisimilitude 
of  a  photograph.  Indeed,  for  a  time  the  aims 
and  methods  of  fiction  were  almost  entirely  lost 
sight  of.  And  it  is  easy  to  see  how  this  unfortu- 
nate result  was  brought  about.  Weary  of  the 
conventionalities  of  the  old  romances,  and  of  the 
shadowy  heroes  and  heroines  with  whose  tedious 
adventures  and  even  more  tedious  disquisitions 
their  pages  were  filled,  the  novelists  of  the  Res- 
toration made  a  bold  endeavor  to  get  back  to 

172 


English  Restoration 

the  life  with  which  they  were  familiar,  and  to 
deal  with  the  world  as  they  knew  it  to  exist. 
But  for  the  moment,  there  seemed  only  one  way 
of  doing  this.  Instead  of  fancy,  they  must  have 
fact;  instead  of  wandering  off  into  the  impos- 
sible, they  must  limit  themselves  to  the  things 
which  had  actually  happened — which  had  really, 
in  Charles  Reade's  witty  phrase,  gone  through 
the  formality  of  taking  place.  Hence,  for  the 
present,  the  constructive  work  of  the  imagina- 
tion—  which  some  of  us,  in  these  days  of  so- 
called  Naturalism,  are  still  old-fashioned  enough 
to  hold  essentially  important  —  was  almost  en- 
tirely neglected.  Nearly  every  story  was  statedly 
"founded  on  fact";  and  the  business  of  the 
novelist  was  practically  reduced  to  the  task  of 
presenting,  with  but  slight  embellishment  or 
rearrangement,  specific  occurrences  in  life.  Thus 
we  have  an  early  example  of  the  tendency,  just 
now  so  conspicuous,  towards  what  M.  Brunetiere 
has  happily  called  "reportage"  in  literature. 
In  the  reaction  against  the  school  of  heroic 
romance,  the  new  story-writers,  therefore,  went 
to  the  other  extreme.  To  take  the  materials  of 
familiar  existence  and  to  reorganize  them,  thus 
producing  a  work  of  art  which  is  at  once  all 
compact  of  truth  and  imagination,  was  for  the 

173 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

time  being  beyond  their  ken.     To  their  limited 
view,  realism  meant  slavish  reality. 

It  was  only  after  this  mistake  had  been  made 
that  the  possibility  of  avoiding  the  airy  unreali- 
ties of  old  romance,  without  being  bound  down 
to  the  skeleton  facts  of  life,  gradually  became 
apparent.  The  discovery  that  a  writer  could  be 
true  to  experience  and  human  nature  without 
necessarily  reproducing  actual  events  or  photo- 
graphing individual  men  and  women,  was  the 
outcome  of  many  experiments  and  much  failure, 
and  was  at  length  hit  upon  in  a  half-blind  and 
fortuitous  way.  It  was  only  little  by  little  that 
the  element  of  acknowledged  fiction  was  allowed 
to  encroach  upon  the  domain  of  truth;  only  little 
by  little  that  people  began  to  understand  that  the 
art  of  fiction  and  the  art  of  lying  are  not  one  and 
the  same,  and  that  the  boldest  play  of  imagina- 
tion in  the  treatment  of  life  is  not  always  to  be 
associated  with  the  distortion  of  reality.  In  the 
works  of  Mrs.  Manley  and  Mrs.  Behn  we  see  the 
English  novel  stumbling  painfully  towards  the 
comprehension  of  its  own  objects.  We  have 
reached  firm  ground,  and  that  is  a  great  achieve- 
ment; for  only  when  we  move  on  firm  ground  is 
the  novel  possible.  But  the  dead  weight  of  the 
actual  is  too  heavy  for  us;  we  cannot  synthesize 

174 


English  Restoration 

the  results  of  experience;  we  gather  observations, 
but  we  are  unable  to  make  artistic  productions 
out  of  them.  Thus,  we  have  a  ' '  New  Atalan- 
tis"  (and  the  book  is  historically  significant  just 
for  this  reason)  which  is  little  more  than  a  jum- 
ble of  personal  scandal,  filled  in  with  occasional 
false  incidents  and  mendacious  details;  an  "Oroo- 
noko,"  which  is  rather  a  fanciful  biography  than 
a  tale;  we  have  a  "Wife's  Resentment,"  a  "Fair 
Jilt,"  a  "Lucky  Mistake," — stories  all  of  which 
are  based  more  or  less  exclusively  on  historic 
occurrences  or  on  events  that  had  come  under 
the  direct  observation  of  the  relaters.*  Even 
where  there  is  a  lack  of  truth,  the  appearance  of 
truth  is  still  carefully  preserved.  Things  which 
have  not  actually  happened  are  nevertheless  re- 
lated as  facts;  real  characters  are  put  through 
unreal  incidents;  the  novel  is  supposed  to  give 
history;  fiction  and  falsehood  are  as  yet  con- 
fused. 

With  this  brief  summary  of  the  qualities  and 
shortcomings  of  our  two  women-novelists,  this 
little  paper  might  properly  close.  But  it  may  be 
interesting  if,  having  carried  our  inquiry  thus  far, 

*  Mrs.  Manley,  in  her  Dedication  to  Lady  Lansdowne,  says  that 
her  stories  have  truth  for  their  foundation  —  i.  e.,  are  based  on  fact. 
Mrs.  Behn  calls  her  "  Nun  "  a  "  a  true  novel." 

175 


Two  Novelists  of  the 

we  add  a  paragraph  about  the  way  in  which  the 
rigid  reality  of  the  works  at  which  we  have  been 
glancing  grew  gradually  out  into  the  genuine 
realism  of  the  later  novel. 

Properly  to  understand  this  tendency  towards 
an  equilibrium  between  fact  and  imagination,  we 
should  turn  aside  to  examine  the  profound  influ- 
ence exerted  over  the  fiction  of  the  time  of  the 
"Tatler"  and  the  "Spectator."  But  for  our 
present  purposes  we  shall  find  the  movement 
forward  clearly  enough  exemplified  in  the  work 
of  one  man  —  the  author  of  "Robinson  Crusoe," 
whose  writings,  therefore,  we  will  take  as  our 
clue. 

Beginning  with  the  production  of  history,  or 
semi-history,  in  which  real  characters,  slightly 
exaggerated,  move  through  real  scenes,  or 
through  scenes  to  but  small  extent  imaginary, 
Defoe  proceeded  little  by  little  to  import  more 
of  fiction  into  his  narrative,  to  the  detriment  of 
the  small  substratum  of  truth  still  retained.  By 
and  by,  he  did  no  more  than  preserve  the  mere 
frame-work  of  history — as  in  "The  Journal  of 
the  Plague  Year"  and  the  "Memoirs  of  a  Cav- 
alier," in  which  most  of  the  characters  and  many 
of  the  incidents  are  purely  fictitious.  After  this, 
the  remaining  element  of  truth  was  gradually 

176 


English  Restoration 

eliminated,  and  he  reached  the  production  of 
narratives  of  fictitious  characters  in  fictitious 
settings  and  among  fictitious  scenes.  ' '  From 
writing  biographies  with  real  names  attached  to 
them,"  says  Professor  Minto,  in  his  Life  of  De- 
foe, "it  was  but  a  short  step  to  writing  biogra- 
phies with  fictitious  names."  Even  when  that 
short  step  was  taken,  the  artifices  resorted  to  by 
him  to  preserve  the  apparent  truthfulness  of  his 
narrations  show  us  that  he  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  that  it  would  be  desirable  to  let  matters 
of  fact  slip  out  of  his  work  entirely.  Though 
what  he  wrote  was  false,  he  still  tried  to  palm  it 
off  upon  the  world  as  true.  This  makes  the 
writing  of  Defoe  more  like  lying  than  fiction, 
and  goes  far  to  explain  the  extraordinary  mi- 
nuteness of  the  circumstantial  method  adopted 
by  him.  But  it  marks,  also,  the  transitional 
quality  of  his  work.  As  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  has 
neatly  put  it,  "Defoe's  novels  are  simply  history 
minus  the  facts."  Only  in  his  latest  works  do 
we  find  this  pseudo-history  making  way  for 
fiction  proper;  and  then  we  recognize  in  Defoe 
the  distinct  forerunner  of  the  great  novelists  of 
the  eighteenth  century. 

But  to  follow  this  matter  farther  would  take 
us  beyond  the  due  bounds,  already  somewhat 

177 


fi  UNIVERSITY 


Two   Novelists 

transgressed,  of  our  present  study.  As  we  may 
now  see,  the  story  of  English  fiction  from  the 
period  of  the  Anglo-French  romance  to  the  time 
of  Fielding  and  Smollett,  is  a  long  one,  and  we 
have  undertaken  to  deal  with  only  one  chapter 
here — the  chapter  which  tells  of  Mrs.  Behn  and 
Mrs.  Manley,  of  what  they  did,  and  of  what  they 
failed  to  do.  That  finished,  our  task  is  at  an 
end. 


178 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 


THE  Bohemia  with  which  the  following  pages 
are  concerned  is  not  that  inland  country  of 
Europe  which  Greene  and  Shakspere,  to  the 
indignation  of  all  right-minded  commentators, 
so  generously  endowed  with  a  sea-coast.  We 
must  at  once  dismiss  from  our  minds  all  thought 
of  Prague  and  the  Czechs;  for  the  country  into 
which  we  are  about  to  offer  a  personally  con- 
ducted excursion  finds  no  place  on  our  maps  and 
no  mention  in  our  geographies.  Our  Bohemia  is, 
in  a  word,  none  other  than  the  Bohemia  of  Paris. 
The  confines  and  landmarks  of  this  strange 
country  have,  fortunately  for  us,  been  authorita- 
tively established.  Bohemia,  according  to  the 
painter  Marcel,  of  whom  we  shall  hear  more  anon, 
and  who  certainly  knew  well  what  he  was  talking 
about,  is  ' '  bounded  on  the  north  by  hope,  work, 
and  gayety;  on  the  south  by  necessity  and  cour- 
age;  on  the  west  and  east  by  calumny  and  the 

181 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

hospital."  *  Yet  it  is  just  possible  that  these 
cryptic  phrases  may  fail  to  convey  to  some  read- 
ers any  very  definite  geographical  information; 
since  even  Rodolphe,  to  whom  they  were  first 
addressed,  is  reported  to  have  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  responded  with  a  simple  "  Je  ne 
comprends  pas."  Hence,  it  may  be  well  at  the 
outset  to  attempt  to  describe,  as  succinctly  as 
possible,  the  limits  of  that  seductive  land  through 
which  our  road  is  now  to  lie. 

This  is  far  from  being  an  easy  task,  however. 
Often  as  the  word  Bohemia  is  used,  in  the  broad 
sense  here  attached  to  it,  so  many  writers  have 
colored  it  with  so  many  different  shades  of 
meaning,  that,  though  we  may  understand 
vaguely  its  general  significance,  it  seems  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  bring  it  satisfactorily  within 
the  terms  of  a  strict  definition.  •  \  Vive  la  Bo- 
heme!" cries  George  Sand,  at  the  end  of  her 
novel,  "La  Derniere  Aldini";  and  "Vive  la 
Boheme  ! "  has  found  many  an  echo  and  re-echo 
in  the  pages  of  French  literature,  down  to  the 
present  day,  when  it  would  seem  that,  as  a  free 
and  independent  country,  Bohemia  is  practically 
disappearing  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  But 
each  one  of  the  many  explorers  of  this  dark  and 

**'  La  Vie  de  Boheme,"  act  i.,  scene  8. 
182 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

mysterious  corner  of  our  modern  world,  has 
brought  back  with  him  his  own  report  of  the 
territory  and  its  inhabitants;  and  these  travellers' 
stories  by  no  means  tally  one  with  another.  To 
some  it  has  seemed  to  be  peopled  by  the  lowest 
classes  of  those  who,  as  the  phrase  goes,  live 
upon  their  wits;  by  beggars,  petty  swindlers  of 
all  descriptions,  and  men  and  women  who, 
through  idleness  or  misfortune,  are  unable  to 
obtain  a  livelihood,  we  will  not  say  in  honest 
ways,  but  in  any  way  that  society  chooses  to 
recognize  as  honest.  To  others  the  population 
has  appeared  to  be  composed  of  those  who  fol- 
low undignified  and  precarious  careers,  as  cheap- 
jacks,  circus-riders,  street-conjurers,  acrobats, 
bear-trainers,  sword-swallowers,  and  itinerant 
mountebanks  of  kindred  descriptions.  A  third 
class  of  writers  has  made  Bohemia  a  regular 
sink  of  society,  the  receptacle  of  all  such  out- 
casts and  human  abominations  as  Eugene  Sue 
and  his  followers  loved  to  depict;  villains  of  the 
deepest  dye — vitriol-throwers,  house-breakers, 
assassins.  While  to  a  fourth  group  this  same 
domain  has  been  the  land  of  literature  and  the 
arts,  where  philosophy  and  beer,  music  and 
debt,  painting  and  hunger,  criticism  and  tobacco- 
smoke,  combine  to  make  life  picturesque  and 

i83 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

inspiring;  a  land  the  denizens  of  which  either 
die  of  penury  in  the  streets  or  the  hospital,  un- 
cared  for,  unknown,  or,  living,  at  last  take  their 
rightful  places  in  the  front  rank,  among  the 
painters,  composers,  and  writers  of  their  time. 

Wherein  these  various  critics  agree,  is  in  de- 
scribing Bohemia  as  a  country  lying  on  the  out- 
skirts of  ordinary  society,  and  inhabited  by  those 
who  cannot,  or  will  not,  yield  to  that  society's 
conventions — the  failures  or  the  incompatibles 
of  decent  modern  civilization.  It  is  hardly 
worth  while  to  try  to  decide  as  to  what  par- 
ticular portion  of  this  vast  and  complex  com- 
munity has  the  best  right  to  a  name  which  has 
thus  been  used  with  great  elasticity  of  meaning. 
It  will  be  sufficient  if  we  say  at  once  that  the 
phase  of  Bohemian  life  with  which  we  here 
purpose  to  deal  is  not  that  reflected  in  the 
romances  of  Xavier  de  Montepin,  Feval,  or  Sue. 
Our  Bohemia  is  the  Bohemia  of  art  and  letters; 
and,  as  our  guide  through  this  romantic  region, 
we  will  take  the  man  who  has  drawn  its  life  for 
us  with  such  marvellous  power  and  vividness — 
Henri  Murger,  himself  the  representative  Bohe- 
mian, alike  in  the  struggles  and  lurid  contradic- 
tions of  his  career,  and  alas !  in  his  early  and 
tragic  death. 

184 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

"To-day,  as  of  old,  every  man  who  devotes  him- 
self to  art,  with  no  other  means  of  subsistence  than  art 
itself,  will  be  forced  to  tread  the  pathways  of  Bohemia. 
The  majority  of  our  contemporaries  who  display  the 
most  beautiful  heraldry  of  art  have  been  Bohemians; 
and,  in  their  calm  and  prosperous  glory,  they  often 
recall,  sometimes  perhaps  with  regret,  the  time  when, 
climbing  the  green  slopes  of  youth,  they  had  no  other 
fortune,  in  the  sunshine  of  their  twenty  years,  than 
courage,  which  is  the  virtue  of  the  young,  and  hope, 
which  is  the  fortune  of  the  poor.  For  the  uneasy 
reader,  for  the  timorous  bourgeois,  for  all  those  who 
can  never  have  too  many  dots  on  the  *'s  of  a  defini- 
tion, we  will  repeat  in  the  form  of  an  axiom:  Bohemia 
is  the  probation  of  artistic  life;  it  is  the  preface  to  the 
academy,  the  hospital,  or  the  morgue." 

Thus  writes  Murger,  in  the  preface  to  his  im- 
mortal "Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme,"  and  the 
words  will  be  found  to  furnish  a  startling  com- 
mentary about  the  kind  of  life  with  which  his 
volume  deals  —  a  life  made  up  of  extraordinary- 
contrasts;  of  dazzling  dreams  and  the  most  sor- 
did of  realities;  of  hope  alternating  with  despair; 
of  high  talents  ruined  by  reckless  excesses;  of 
splendid  promises  defeated  by  the  Fates;  of 
brilliant  careers  cut  short  by  premature  death. 
"The  true  Bohemians,"  continues  this  writer, 
who,  more  than  any  other,  speaks  as  their  ac- 
credited mouthpiece  and  historian,  "are  really 

185 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

the  called  of  art,  and  stand  a  chance  of  being 
also  the  chosen."  But  the  country  of  their 
adoption  literally  ' '  bristles  with  dangers.  Chasms 
yawn  on  either  side — misery  and  doubt.  Yet 
between  these  two  chasms,  there  is  at  least  a 
road,  leading  to  a  goal,  which  the  Bohemians 
can  already  reach  with  their  eyes,  while  awaiting 
the  time  when  they  shall  touch  it  with  their 
hands."  But  till  such  time  shall  come,  even  if 
it  ever  comes  at  all,  the  young  enthusiast  must 
turn  a  brave  face  upon  all  the  troubles,  the  anxi- 
eties, the  privations,  the  fears,  the  petty  worries 
and  distractions,  by  which  his  self-chosen  career 
will  be  everywhere  begirt.  For  those  who  have 
once  set  their  feet  in  the  alluring  but  perilous 
pathway,  which  will  lead  to  fame  or  misery,  to 
immortality  or  death,  there  must  be  no  trem- 
bling, no  hesitation,  no  looking  backward  with 
regretful  eyes  to  the  safe,  though  humble,  beaten 
tracks  which  they  have  left  below.  They  have 
dared  to  devote  themselves,  brain  and  soul,  to 
art,  in  a  world  which  cannot  understand  their 
aims,  which  sneers  at  their  aspirations,  which  is 
very  likely  to  leave  them  to  starve,  and  will  at 
best  yield  them  only  a  grudging  and  tardy  wel- 
come. Hence,  every  day's  existence  becomes 
for  them  "a  work  of  genius,  an  ever- recurring 

186 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

problem."  *  Nor  is  it  surprising  that,  in  the 
haphazard  life  which  they  are  thus  forced  to 
lead,  they  should  inevitably  acquire  those  habits 
of  carelessness,  that  easy-going  morality,  and 
often  enough  that  want  of  settled  purpose,  which 
make  them  the  black  sheep  of  respectable  society. 
"If  a  little  good  fortune  falls  into  their  hands,  they 
forthwith  begin  to  pursue  the  most  ruinous  fancies 
.  .  .  not  finding  windows  enough  to  throw  their 
money  out  of;  and  then,  when  the  last  ecu  is  dead  and 
buried,  they  begin  again  to  dine  at  the  table  d'h6te  of 
chance,  where  their  cover  is  always  laid;  and  to  chase, 
from  morning  till  night,  that  ferocious  beast,  the  hun- 
dred-sous-piece."  t 

Such  is  the  tenor  of  their  way;  certainly  not  a 
noiseless  one,  nor  one  running  through  the  cool, 
sequestered  vale  of  life.  Little  wonder,  then, 
that  with  all  the  frivolities  and  uncertainties  of 
their  journey,  with  all  its  physical  hardships  and 
moral  perils,  so  few  should  survive  their  pil- 
grimage through  Bohemia,  or,  when  they  finally 
reach  a  quieter  resting-place,  should  have  the 
heart  to  recount,  with  frankness  and  simplicity, 
their  varied  experiences  in  the  probationary  land. 

Yet  the  Bohemians  are  a  great  race,  and  may 
boast  a  proud  extraction.  The  founder  of  their 
illustrious  family  was  none  other  than  the  great 

*  "La  Vie  de  Bohfeme,"  act  i.,  scene  8.    t  Ibid. 

187 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

father  of  Western  song,  who,  "  living  by  chance 
from  day  to  day,  wandered  about  the  fertile 
country  of  Ionia,  eating  the  bread  of  charity, 
and  stopped  at  eventide  to  hang  beside  the 
hearth  of  hospitality,  the  harmonious  lyre  that 
had  chanted  the  loves  of  Helen  and  the  fall  of 
Troy."  *  Descending  the  centuries  to  modern 
times,  the  Bohemian  reckons  his  ancestors 
among  the  prominent  figures  of  every  great  lit- 
erary epoch.  In  the  middle  ages,  the  great 
family  tradition  is  perpetuated  among  the  min- 
strels and  ballad-makers,  the  devotees  of  the  gay 
science,  the  whole  tribe  of  the  melodious  vaga- 
bonds of  Touraine;  while,  as  we  pass  from  the 
days  of  chivalry  to  the  dawn  of  the  Renaissance, 
we  find  "Bohemia  still  strolling  about  all  the 
highways  of  the  kingdom,  and  already  invading 
the  streets  of  Paris  itself."  Who  does  not  know 
of  Pierre  Gringoire,  friend  of  vagrants  and  foe  to 
fasting?  Who  cannot  picture  him  as  "he  beats 
the  pavements  of  the  town,  nose  in  air,  like  a 
dog's,  sniffing  the  odors  of  the  kitchens  and  the 
cookshops";  and  "jingling  in  imagination — alas, 
not  in  his  pockets  !  —  the  ten  crowns,  which  the 
aldermen  have  promised  him  for  the  very  pious 

*  In  this  slight  historic  sketch  of  Bohemianism,  we  simply  follow, 
without  comment  or  criticism,  Murger's  original  preface  to  the 
*  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme." 

1 88 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

and  devout  farce  he  has  written  for  their  theatre 
in  the  hall  of  the  Palais  de  Justice"?  Who, 
again,  does  not  recall  Master  Frangois  Villon, 
' 'poet  and  vagabond,  par  excellence"  whose 
ballads  to-day  may  still  make  us  forget  the  ruf- 
fian, the  vagabond,  the  debauchee?  These  are 
names  with  strange  power  still  over  the  imagina- 
tion. And,  when  we  come  to  the  splendid 
outburst  of  the  Renaissance,  is  it  not  to  find 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  men  in  whose  veins 
the  rich  old  blood  was  fierce  and  strong,  with 
Clement  Marot,  and  the  ill-starred  Tasso,  with 
Jean  Goujon,  Pierre  Ronsard,  Mathurin  Regnier, 
and  who  shall  say  how  many  more?  Shakspere, 
and  Moliere,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  and  d' Alem- 
bert — these,  too,  the  historian  of  Bohemia  must 
include  in  his  annals,  to  say  nothing  of  the  long 
line  of  great  writers  in  England  (whom  Murger 
does  not  even  allude  to),  by  whom  the  name  of 
Grub  Street  was  made  illustrious  in  the  chroni- 
cles of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Two  groups  of  Bohemians  in  Paris — where 
perhaps  alone  to-day  artistic  Bohemianism  is  still 
possible — have  within  more  recent  years  made 
their  voices  heard  and  their  influence  felt  in 
the  literature  and  art  of  their  time.  The  first 
was  that  which    gathered  about  poor  Gerard 

189 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

Labrunie,  better  known  as  Gerard  de  Nerval,  the 
unfortunate  young  writer  whose  works  have  yet 
to  reap  their  due  appreciation,  but  whose  trans- 
lation of  "Faust,"  as  Goethe  told  Eckermann, 
made  the  great  German  proud  "to  find  such  an 
interpreter."  That  group  was  composed  of  such 
men  as  Corot,  Chesseriau,  Arsene  Houssaye, 
Theophile  Gautier,  Jules  Janin,  and  Stadler;  the 
mere  recital  of  whose  names  is  enough.  Shortly 
after  this  band  was  broken  up — some,  like  Ner- 
val, dying  tragically  and  long  before  their  time; 
others  reaching  high  rank  in  the  world  of  French 
letters — another  famous  ctnacle  arose,  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  which  was  the  prince  of  modern 
Bohemia,  Henri  Murger  himself.  Among  those 
who  toiled  and  suffered  with  him,  we  may  make 
passing  mention  of  Auguste  Vitu,  Schaune,  and 
Alfred  Delvau;  but  there  were,  of  course,  others, 
whose  names  are  less  familiar  to  the  reading 
public  of  to-day,  especially  in  this  country.  The 
romance  of  this  second  Bohemia  has  been  writ- 
ten for  us  by  Murger  in  the  ' '  Scenes  de  la  Vie 
de  Boheme";  and  it  is  to  the  pages  of  this  fas- 
cinating book  that  we  purpose  presently  to  turn. 
But  to  understand  these  aright,  to  appreciate 
their  pathos  and  their  comedy,  to  realize  their 
intensity  of  meaning,  we  must  first  of  all  know 

190 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

something  of  the  writer's  personality  and  career. 
I  do  not  mean  that  it  will  be  necessary  for  us  to 
retell  in  detail  the  whole  sad  story  of  Murger' s 
life.  But  so  much  of  his  character  and  expe- 
riences find  embodiment  in  this  book  of  his,  that 
we  should  miss  half  its  charm  and  more  than  half 
its  significance,  if  we  did  not,  to  begin  with, 
make  ourselves  acquainted  with  at  least  the 
larger  facts  of  his  existence. 

Henri  Murger  was  born  in  1822.  His  father, 
a  Savoyard,  moved  to  Paris  either  just  before  or 
just  after  his  son's  birth;  obtained  a  situation  as 
janitor;  and  while  attending  to  the  demands  of 
this  position,  carried  on  at  the  same  time  his 
trade  as  a  tailor.  Murger  pere  was  a  hard, 
severe,  unsympathetic  man,  totally  unable  to 
understand  his  son's  early-developed  literary 
propensities,  and  with  no  higher  ambition  in  life 
than  that  of  making  a  decent  income  by  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  craft.  His  intention  from  the  begin- 
ning was  to  bring  young  Henri  up  as  an  adept  at 
shears  and  thimble,  so  that  he  might  by-and-by 
turn  out  a  hard-working,  thrifty  ninth  part  of  a 
man,  like  himself.  But  Henri  rebelled;  and  as  his 
mother  sided  with  him,  having,  as  it  would  seem, 
some   faith  in   the   child's   talents,  or   perhaps 

191 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

only  a  womanly  yearning  to  make  a  gentle- 
man of  him,  the  long  struggle  with  paternal 
authority  finally  closed,  though  not  without  the 
breeding  of  bitterness,  in  his  favor.  The  original 
scheme  of  training  him  to  manual  labor  was 
abandoned,  and  he  received  such  education  as 
his  parents  could  afford,  which,  after  all,  was 
poor  enough. 

While  still  a  mere  boy  he  entered  the  practi- 
cal business  of  life  through  the  narrow  and 
dingy  portals  of  a  lawyer's  office;  but  like  many 
another  youth  under  similar  conditions,  the  itch 
for  verse  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  he  relieved 
with  the  inditing  of  stanzas  the  dry  technicali- 
ties of  the  legal  routine.  Meanwhile,  an  acade- 
mician, M.  de  Jouy,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him; 
and  through  his  influence,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
he  obtained  an  appointment  as  secretary  to  Count 
Tolstoi,  a  Russian  diplomatist  then  resident  in 
Paris.  Forty  francs  a  month  represented  the 
material  advantages  of  this  position ;  not  a  lordly 
remuneration,  certainly,  but  acceptable  enough, 
none  the  less;  more  especially  as  the  duties,  any- 
thing but  cumbersome  at  the  start,  dwindled  con- 
siderably with  lapse  of  time  and  presently  became 
almost  nominal.  With  a  small  definite  income 
to  fall  back  upon,  and  plenty  of  leisure  on  his 

192 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

hands,  Murger  now  began  to  give  free  scope  to 
his  literary  impulses,  passing  his  hours  in  the 
study  of  the  poets,  and  making  a  humble  start 
in  his  own  productive  career.  But  his  good 
fortune  was  destined  to  be  of  short  duration;  for 
through  a  rather  ludicrous  misadventure  his  con- 
nection with  Tolstoi  was  after  a  while  brought  to 
a  sudden  close.  At  that  time  he  was  engaged  to 
furnish  a  certain  amount  of  daily  copy  to  one  of 
the  Parisian  papers.  It  so  chanced  that  during 
the  Revolution  of  1848  Tolstoi  found  it  neces- 
sary to  put  his  secretarial  services  once  more 
into  active  requisition;  and,  what  with  getting 
off  his  daily  supply  of  matter  for  the  press  and 
preparing  dispatches  for  the  Czar  of  all  the  Rus- 
sias,  the  young  man  unexpectedly  found  his 
energies  taxed  to  the  full.  One  memorable  day 
the  functions  of  diplomatist  and  author  unfortu- 
nately became  entangled,  and  in  his  hurry  and 
excitement  he  sent  off  his  feuilleton  to  the  Rus- 
sian Court  and  his  dispatch  to  the  "Corsaire." 
With  this  ill-timed  performance,  Murger' s  politi- 
cal career  ignominiously  ended,  and — what  was 
by  far  the  most  serious  part  of  the  matter — the 
monthly  recompense  of  forty  francs,  which  had 
seemed  to  him  a  veritable  Peruvian  gold-mine, 
ended  also.     Nor  was   this  all.     Ere  this   his 

193 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

mother  had  died,  and  with  the  cessation  of  her 
mediatorial  influence,  the  feud  between  himself 
and  his  father  had  broken  out  afresh.  Thus 
Murger  was  thrown  entirely  on  his  own  resources, 
with  nothing  but  his  pen  to  look  to  for  the  means 
of  support.  His  father  peremptorily  refused  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  him.  "He  contents 
himself  with  giving  me  advice,"  wrote  Henri  to 
a  friend,  in  a  season  of  special  tribulation,  "and 
with  insulting  me  whenever  we  meet."  And  it 
is  well  known  that  one  cannot  live  on  advice, 
while  insults,  though  more  stimulating,  are  not  a 
whit  more  nutritious. 

It  was  at  this  point,  then,  that  Henri  Murger 
became  a  dweller  in  Bohemia.  He  was  now  one 
of  those  who,  in  his  own  words,  have  no  other 
means  of  subsistence  beyond  that  afforded  by  art 
itself;  one  of  those  described  by  Balzac,  "whose 
religion  is  hope,  whose  code  is  faith  in  oneself, 
whose  budget  is  charity. ' '  Through  nearly  all 
the  varied  experiences  of  which  he  was  after- 
wards to  write  with  such  wonderfully  sustained 
graphic  power,  the  young  man  himself  now 
passed;  through  the  days  of  careless  idleness  or 
strenuous  exertion;  through  the  nights  of  home- 
less wandering  or  furious  dissipation;  through  all 
the  grim  poverty  and  suffering,  all  the  doubt  and 

194 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

restlessness,  all  the  fierce  fluctuations  of  assur- 
ance and  despair,  which  presently  went  to  the 
making  of  his  book.  Even  while  he  had  still 
been  in  receipt  of  Count  Tolstoi's  allowance, 
things  had  sometimes  gone  hardly  enough  with 
him;  for,  needless  to  state,  he  was  not  of  the 
thrifty  or  frugal  kind.  "Your  friend,"  he 
writes  in  a  letter,  as  early  as  1841,  "  has  found 
the  means  of  swallowing  forty  francs  in  a  fort- 
night; but  happily  for  him  there  are  still  forty 
sous  left  to  carry  him  to  the  end  of  the  month. 
His  existence,  then,  has  been  during  the  past 
fortnight  diversified  with  beefsteaks  .  .  .  and 
Havana  cigars";  while  for  the  remaining  two 
ill-omened  weeks,  recourse  must  be  had  to  that 
"table  d'hote  of  chance"  already  referred  to. 
With  the  discontinuance  of  this  tiny  but  periodic 
dropping  from  the  great  Cornucopia  of  Provi- 
dence, the  beefsteaks  and  Havana  cigars  became 
less  and  less  frequent  apparitions  in  his  life,  and 
the  famous  inn  which  bears  the  "Belle  Etoile" 
as  its  sign  and  trading  token,  found  in  him  a 
pretty  constant  guest.  To  make  his  shoes  last 
more  than  six  months,  and  his  debts  forever,  now 
became  an  urgent  problem  for  him.  Sometimes 
fortune  would  pay  him  a  flying  visit,  and  on 
such   occasions  he  describes   himself   as  being 

195 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

temporarily  in  possession  of  more  money  than 
he  knows  what  to  do  with;  but  libraries,  tailors, 
restaurants,  cafes,  theatres,  Turkish  tobacco- 
pipes,  and  friends,  combined  to  help  him  over 
this  perplexing  difficulty  with  extraordinary  ease 
and  rapidity.  Once,  in  the  intense  excitement 
of  a  sudden  windfall,  he  went  to  bed  and  dreamed 
that  he  was  the  Emperor  of  Morocco  and  was 
marrying  the  Bank  of  France.  But  such  seasons 
of  miraculous  plenty  were  few  and  far  between, 
and  visions  of  this  extraordinary  kind,  when 
they  came  at  all,  were  less  likely  to  arise  from 
repletion  than  from  an  empty  stomach;  for  some- 
times he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  actual 
starvation.  Now,  he  reports  borrowing  right 
and  left  from  any  acquaintance  who  had  a  franc 

to  lend;  now,  again,   "S is  paying  me  the 

thirty  francs  he  owes  me,  fourteen  sous  at  a 
time."  So  from  month  to  month  he  struggled 
on,  without  seeming  to  get  any  nearer  to  the 
goal  he  had  in  view,  or,  in  point  of  fact,  to  any 
goal  at  all;  often  tortured  with  physical  pain  and 
privation;  often  driven  half-wild  with  despair; 
but,  after  the  fashion  of  the  true  Bohemian,  keep- 
ing always  a  brave  heart,  and  a  ready  jest  for  the 
good  friends  who  stuck  close  to  him  through  all, 
and  who  would  have  been  only  too  willing  to 

196 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

help  him  in  his  need,  but  for  the  single  unfortu- 
nate circumstance  that  they  were  as  badly  off  as 
himself. 

Unhappily,  Murger  was,  in  one  important 
respect,  particularly  ill-adapted  for  the  kind  of 
life  into  which  he  was  thus  driven.  A  man  who 
trusts  to  his  pen  for  daily  bread  should  at  least 
be  a  facile  and  ready  writer,  able  to  turn  off 
indefinite  quantities  of  copy  in  a  given  time,  and 
willing  to  undertake  the  writing  up  of  any  sub- 
ject upon  which  public  interest  may  be  tempo- 
rarily aroused,  and  an  article  required.  When 
literature  becomes  a  business,  the  higher  ambi- 
tion to  produce  only  good  work  must  almost 
inevitably  be  subordinated  to  the  lower  and  more 
practical  aim  of  making  the  thing  pay.  Now, 
the  difficulty  with  Murger  was,  that  although 
literature  was  his  livelihood,  his  regular  trade 
and  calling,  he  persistently  refused  to  regard  it 
mainly  in  that  light — refused  to  sacrifice  artistic 
excellence  to  temporary  advantage,  and  to  debase 
a  sacred  mission  into  mere  routine  work,  the 
immediate,  if  not  indeed  the  sole,  object  of  which 
was  to  turn  so  much  intellectual  labor  into  so 
much  food  and  clothing.  He  himself  has 
remarked  concerning  one  of  his  characters  that, 
after  the  fashion   of   genius — a  generalization 

197 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

which  may  or  may  not  be  partially  true, —  he 
had  a  tendency  to  be  lazy.  Murger  was  not 
exactly  lazy;  but  he  was  whimsical  and  uncer- 
tain; his  energies  were  not  always  under  com- 
mand; and  he  did  not,  with  Anthony  Trollope, 
put  firmer  faith  in  a  piece  of  beeswax  on  the  seat 
of  his  chair  than  in  all  the  promptings  of  the 
divine  afflatus.  Like  Goldsmith,  he  recognized 
that  the  conditions  of  his  life  rendered  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  pay  court  to  the  "draggle-tail 
Muses";  they  would  simply  have  left  him  to 
starve  outright.  So  he  turned  to  prose;  but 
with  prose  things  were  nearly  as  bad.  There 
were  times  when  he  could  not  and  would  not 
write — when  the  spirit  was  not  upon  him;  and 
when  he  could  not  work  as  an  artist,  he  would 
not  work  as  a  day-laborer  or  publisher's  drudge. 
And  even  when  he  was  in  full  swing,  his  delicate 
taste,  his  almost  morbid  care  in  composition,  his 
constant  desire  to  do  his  best,  prevented  him 
from  ever  producing  with  the  rapidity  necessary 
to  make  the  results  really  remunerative.  Never, 
even  under  the  greatest  stress  of  circumstances, 
would  he  consent  to  write  hastily,  or  allow  his 
manuscript  to  leave  his  hands  without  what  he 
conceived  to  be  its  proper  share  of  thought  and 
revision.     Money  to  him  was  always  the  second- 

198 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

ary  consideration;  even  hunger  had  to  wait,  that 
the  artistic  sense  might  be  satisfied.  Rather 
than  prove  traitor  to  his  lofty  ideals,  he  would 
live  for  weeks  on  dry  bread. 

Thus  he  had  more  than  the  usual  difficulty  in 
making  ends  meet.  But  the  misfortune  did  not 
stop  there.  A  slow  and  exceedingly  painstaking 
writer,  he  could  produce  but  little  in  the  normal 
hours  of  work;  hence,  the  limit  had  to  be  fre- 
quently extended;  and,  for  this  purpose,  recourse 
was  had  to  the  perilous  aid  of  artificial  stimu- 
lants. We  now  touch  the  saddest  part  of 
Murger's  sad  story.  He  wrote  at  night,  and 
generally  in  bed — a  practice  which  he  had  prob- 
ably adopted  in  days  when  fuel  was  a  luxury 
beyond  his  reach;*  and  his  work  was  almost 
invariably  done  with  the  assistance  of  strong  and 
incessant  potations  of  coffee.  When  the  house 
was  perfectly  quiet,  when  darkness  and  silence 
had  fallen    over  the    city,    then    Murger,    like 

*  A  story  to  the  point  is  worth  repeating  here.  When  the  play- 
wright, Barrifere,  went  to  him  one  afternoon  to  propose  the  drama- 
tization of  the  "  Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life,"  he  found  Murger  in  his 
attic  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  in  bed.  It  subsequently  came  out  that  a 
Bohemian  friend,  having  occasion  to  pay  a  business  visit  to  some 
important  functionary,  had  borrowed  his  only  pair  of  trousers, 
which  had  the  advantage  of  being  a  trifle  better  than  his  own;  and 
Murger  had  to  remain  in  bed,  with  such  patience  as  he  could  com- 
mand, until  they  should  be  restored. 

I99 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

Balzac,  commenced  the  labors  of  the  day.  With 
these  desperate  measures,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  he  began  very  early  to  undermine  a 
constitution  which  had  never  been  robust.  The 
story  of  the  habits  thus  formed,  and  of  the 
tyranny  they  acquired  over  him,  is  a  terribly 
tragic  one,  and  might  furnish  a  fearful  warning 
to  many  a  jaded  brain-worker,  did  we  not  know 
that  it  is  the  everlasting  law  of  human  nature 
that  no  one  shall  profit  by  any  one  else's  experi- 
ences.- "lam  literally  killing  myself,"  he  writes 
to  a  friend.  "You  must  break  me  of  coffee.  I 
count  on  you."  "There  are  nights,"  he  declares 
at  another  time,  "when  I  have  consumed  as 
much  as  six  ounces  of  coffee,  and  only  end  by 
convincing  myself  more  than  ever  of  my  lack 
of  power — and  this,  yes,  this  has  lasted  three 
months.  So  that  at  present  I  am  broken  down 
by  the  application  of  these  Mochas.  .  .  .  And 
here  I  am  still  passing  my  nights  drinking  coffee 
like  Voltaire,  and  smoking  like  Jean  Bart."  As 
a  direct  consequence  of  these  suicidal  habits,  he 
gradually  contracted  a  terrible  disease  —  known 
to  medicine  as  "purpura" — which  took  him 
again  and  again  to  the  hospital.  Once,  when 
the  hand  of  sickness  had  smitten  him  with  more 
than   usual   severity,    he    made    a    determined 

200 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

attempt  to  reform.  He  banished  his  coffee, 
and  strove,  by  closing  the  shutters  and  lighting 
the  candles,  to  trick  himself  into  working,  not 
of  course  by  daylight,  but  simply  during  the 
day.  But  it  was  too  late  to  inaugurate  so  radical 
a  change.  Ere  long  his  nocturnal  instincts  re- 
asserted themselves,  and  continued  in  full  force 
to  the  end  of  his  career.  Doubtless,  it  is  in  the 
pathological  conditions  thus  brought  about,  that 
we  have  to  seek  the  explanation  of  the  fearful 
restlessness  which  presently  came  to  characterize 
him,  and  which  earned  for  him  the  nickname  of 
the  Wandering  Christian. 

It  was  only  after  his  constitution  had  been 
shattered,  and  he  had  grown  prematurely  old, 
that  Murger  found  his  way  out  of  Bohemia. 
The  path  into  that  land  of  glamour  and  enchant- 
ments had  been  easy  enough,  like  the  road  to 
Avernus;  the  passage  back  again  into  the  com- 
mon world  was  in  his  case,  as  in  the  case  of  so 
many  others,  a  steep  and  difficult  one.  But 
after  months  and  years  of  toil  and  waiting,  suc- 
cess came  at  last,  and  little  by  little  he  was  able 
to  break  with  tenacious  old  associations,  and 
settle  down  to  a  more  steady  and  regular  rou- 
tine of  life.  He  established  a  connection  with 
the   "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes";  and  with  a 

201 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

position  now  practically  assured,  took  up  his 
abode  at  Marlotte,  near  Fontainebleau.  Here 
he  had  every  chance  of  restoring  his  enfeebled 
health,  and  starting  his  career  anew  upon  a  dif- 
ferent and  a  wiser  plan.  But  the  hour  had 
gone  by.  A  brief  period  of  work  and  quiet 
happiness  was  brought  to  a  close  in  January, 
1 86 1,  when  Henri  Murger  breathed  his  last  in 
the  house  where  he  had  already  spent  so  many 
weeks  of  suffering — in  the  Hopital  St.  Louis. 
He  had  not  completed  his  thirty-ninth  year. 

Of  the  general  work  of  Murger,  this  is  not  the 
place  to  speak.  It  is  considerable  in  quantity, 
and  much  of  it  has  substantial  claim  to  critical 
attention;  for  his  prose  is  finely  wrought,  and 
his  lyrics  —  instance  the  superb  "Chanson  de 
Musette,"  so  highly  but  justly  praised  by  Gau- 
tier, — are  sometimes  of  rare  purity  and  sweet- 
ness. But  it  is  by  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian 
Life,"  and  by  these  alone,  after  all,  that  Murger 
keeps  his  hold  to-day  upon  the  broader  reading 
public.  It  has  been  said  that  he  only  wrote  at 
his  best  when  he  was  writing  straight  out  of  his 
own  life.  This  is  perhaps  at  bottom  the  reason 
why  this  one  singular  book  possesses  vitality  far 
in  excess  of  all  his  other  productions.     These 

202 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

may  still  be  read  with  enjoyment,  though  in  the 
tremendous  stress  of  modern  affairs,  and  with 
the  ceaseless  activity  of  the  printing-press,  they 
are  more  likely  to  be  ignored  by  all  but  special 
students.  But  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life," 
as  Mr.  Saintsbury  has  rightly  insisted,  take  a 
permanent  place  in  the  literature  of  humanity. 
Here  we  may  notice  one  more  illustration  of  the 
curiously  distorted  judgments  which  authors 
often  pass  upon  their  own  works.  In  later 
years  he  was  accustomed  to  speak  slightingly 
and  almost  petulantly  of  the  volume  which  has 
carried  his  name  over  into  a  new  generation; 
even,  it  is  said,  going  so  far  as  to  affirm  that 
"  that  devil  of  a  book  will  hinder  me  from  ever 
crossing  the  Pont  des  Arts" — that  is,  from 
entering  the  Academy,  which  was  one  of  the 
unfulfilled  ambitions  of  his  life.  But,  in  another 
and  finer  sense,  it  has  placed  his  name  among 
those  of  the  Immortals. 

We  may  now  pass  from  the  author  to  his 
volume,  on  the  title-page  of  which  he  might  well 
have  written  the  famous  quorum  pars  magna  fui 
of  Virgil's  hero.  "Murger,  c'est  la  Boheme, 
comme  la  Boheme  fut  Murger,"  was  the  declara- 
tion of  one  of  his  personal  friends;  and  the  stuff 
of  his  wonderful  scenes,  with  all  their  extrava- 

203 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

gance  and  rollicking  absurdity,  with  all  their 
poignant  pathos  and  whimsical  humor,  is,  as  we 
have  said,  stuff  furnished  by  close  observation 
and  intimate  experience,  though  the  crude  ma- 
terial is  transmuted  into  gold  by  the  secret 
alchemy  of  genius.  It  has  been  said  that  many 
of  Murger's  chapters  were  actually  written  —  in 
the  French  phrase,  for  which  we  have  no  satis- 
factory equivalent — au  jour  le  jour;  that  he 
made  the  scenes  of  his  Bohemian  life  into  litera- 
ture, so  to  speak,  while  they  were  still  being 
enacted.  To  this  effect  Theophile  de  Banville 
reported  that  "that  which  was  done  by  Ro- 
dolphe" — who,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  is 
generally  to  be  identified  with  Murger  himself — 
"during  the  month  when  he  was  Mademoiselle 
Mimi's  neighbor,  has  perhaps  had  no  parallel 
since  letters  began.  His  days  he  passed  in  com- 
posing verses,  sketching  plots  of  plays,  and 
covering  Mimi's  hands  with  kisses  as  with  a 
glove;  but  his  daily  bread  was  his  feuilleton  for 
the  'Corsaire,'  and  as  Rodolphe  had  neither 
money  nor  books  to  invent  anything  but  his  own 
life,  each  evening  he  wrote  as  a  feuilleton  for  the 
1  Corsaire  \  the  life  of  that  day,  and  each  day  he 
lived  the  feuilleton  for  the  next.  It  was  thus  that 
the  morrow  of  I  know  not  what  quarrel,  after  the 

204 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

fashion  of  the  lovers  of  Horace,  Mimi,  leaning  on 
her  lover's  arm,  was  bowed  to  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg by  the  poet  of  the  'Feuilles  d'Automne,' 
and  returned  home  quite  proud  to  the  Rue  des 
Canettes;  and  that  same  evening  Rodolphe  wrote 
on  this  theme  one  of  his  most  delightful  chap- 
ters." *  This  account  of  the  connection  between 
Murger's  book  and  his  daily  life,  probably  over- 
states the  matter,  or  is  to  be  accepted  as  ap- 
proximately true  only  in  regard  to  exceptional 
occurrences,  like  the  one  directly  referred  to. 
But  that  the  substance  of  the  volume  was 
throughout  furnished  by  experience  is  certain. 
The  principal  characters,  and  even  some  of  the 
minor  ones,  have  long  since  been  traced  back  to 
their  archetypes;  the  spots  rendered  famous  by 

*  The  passage  in  which  reference  is  made  to  the  meeting  with 
Victor  Hugo  will  be  found  at  the  close  of  chapter  xiv.  of  the 
"Scenes."  "After  lunching  together,  they  started  for  the  country. 
In  crossing  the  Luxembourg,  Rodolphe  met  a  great  poet,  who  had 
always  behaved  to  him  with  charming  kindness.  For  propriety's 
sake,  he  was  going  to  pretend  not  to  see  him.  But  the  poet  did  not 
allow  him  time ;  in  passing,  he  gave  him  a  friendly  recognition,  and 
bowed  to  his  young  companion  with  a  gracious  smile.  'Who  is 
that  gentleman?*  asked  Mimi.  Rodolphe  replied  by  mentioning 
a  name  which  made  her  blush  with  pleasure  and  pride.  '  Oh,' 
said  Rodolphe,  '  thfs  meeting  with  a  poet  who  has  sung  so  well  of 
love,  is  a  good  omen,  and  will  bring  luck  to  our  reconciliation.' " 
Banville's  statement  of  the  way  in  which  Murger  fed  his  fiction  day 
by  day  upon  the  happenings  of  his  own  life,  reminds  us  some- 
what of  Mr.  Robert  S.  Hichens'  grim  and  powerful  story,  "  The 
Collaborators." 

205 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

many  a  memorable  scene — such  as  the  Cafe 
Momus  and  the  shop  of  the  old  Jewish  bric-a- 
brac  dealer,  Father  Medicis  —  are  known  to  have 
actually  existed  in  the  old  Latin  Quarter,  though 
in  the  evolution  of  modern  Paris  the  historic 
landmarks  have  been  swept  away;  while  there  is 
no  question  that  in  most  of  his  stories  Murger 
either  drew  immediately  upon  actual  circum- 
stances, or  at  least  built  his  superstructure  of 
fancy  upon  a  very  solid  foundation  of  fact. 

The  heroes  of  the  "  Scenes  of  Bohemian 
Life"  are  four  in  number.  To  each  member  of 
the  strange  group  —  the  "Quatuor  Murger,"  as 
it  came  to  be  called — we  will  yield  the  honor  of 
a  separate  paragraph  or  two  of  characterization. 

First  we  have  Alexandre  Schaunard,  who, 
though  he  cultivates  "the  two  liberal  arts  of 
painting  and  music, ' '  devotes  the  larger  part  of  his 
attention  to  the  latter,  and  is  indeed  particularly 
engaged  at  the  time  when  we  make  his  acquaint- 
ance, in  the  composition  of  an  elaborate  symbolic 
symphony  which  might  almost  be  said  to  antici- 
pate some  of  the  crazy  theories  of  more  recent 
doctrinaires,  representing  as  it  does  "the  influ- 
ence of  blue  in  the  arts."  This  strange  produc- 
tion had  a  real  existence,  and  its  originator  in 

206 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

the  book  has  been  identified  with  Alexandre 
Schaune,  who  also  drove  an  artistic  tandem  with 
much  enthusiasm  for  a  season,  though  he  subse- 
quently forsook  Bohemia  and  adopted  a  more 
profitable  career  in  the  toy-making  business.  He 
and  Murger  became  acquainted  in  1841,  lived 
together  at  one  time  in  the  closest  intimacy  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  and  remained  friends  till 
the  latter' s  death.  Schaune  survived  among 
"new  faces,  other  minds,"  till  1887,  and  only  a 
short  time  before  he  died  published  some  me- 
moirs which  contain  many  matters  of  interest  for 
the  Murger  student.  He  bore  among  his  com- 
panions the  nickname  of  Schannard-sauvage, 
and  in  Murger' s  original  manuscript  the  name 
was  so  written — Schannard.  By  a  printer's 
error,  however,  the  first  n  was  turned  into  a  uy 
and  the  historian  thought  well,  in  reading  the 
proof,  to  let  the  blunder  pass. 

Schaunard  in  the  book  is  specially  distin- 
guished among  his  acquaintances  for  having 
raised  borrowing  to  the  level  of  a  fine  art.  By 
dint  of  many  careful  observations  and  delicate 
experiments  he  has  discovered  the  days  when 
each  one  of  his  friends  is  accustomed  to  receive 
money,  and  thus,  following  the  periodic  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  financial  tide,  spares  himself  the 

207 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

trouble  and  annoyance  of  appealing  to  the  gen- 
erosity of  those  who,  at  the  given  moment,  are 
likely  to  be  in  as  low  water  as  himself.  Having, 
furthermore,  "learned  the  way  to  borrow  five 
francs  in  all  the  languages  of  the  globe,"  the 
painter-musician  is  able,  as  a  rule,  to  keep  pretty 
firmly  on  his  feet.  By  a  critical  friend  he  was 
once  described  as  ' '  passing  one  half  of  his  time 
in  looking  for  money  to  pay  his  creditors,  and 
the  other  half  in  eluding  his  creditors  when  the 
money  has  been  found."*  But  it  should  be 
remembered  that  this  calls  for  some  discount  as 
a  friend's  judgment,  and  likely,  therefore,  to  be 
a  trifle  over-colored;  and  it  is  but  doing  justice 
to  Schaunard  to  say  that,  towards  the  immediate 
companions  who  had  come  to  his  rescue  from 
time  to  time,  he  behaved  upon  a  more  honorable 
plan.  To  facilitate,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
equalize  so  far  as  possible,  the  "taxes"  which  he 
levied,  he  ' !  had  drawn  up,  in  order  of  districts 
and  streets,  an  alphabetical  list  containing  the 
names   of   all   his    friends    and    acquaintances. 

*  This  passage,  like  sundry  others  already  cited,  is  taken  from 
the  dramatization  oi  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life,"  which  was, 
as  we  have  seen,  made  by  Murger  in  collaboration  with  Theodore 
Barriere,  and  was  extremely  successful.  It  differs  in  many  particu- 
lars from  the  book,  the  scattered  scenes  of  which  are  reduced  to 
coherence  and  unity,  but  the  male  characters  preserve  their  general 
traits. 

208 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia     \^~ 

Opposite  each  name  was  inscribed  the  maximum 
sum  which,  having  regard  to  their  state  of  for- 
tune, he  might  borrow  from  them,  the  times 
when  they  were  in  funds,  their  dinner-hour,  and 
the  ordinary  bill  of  fare  of  the  house.  Beside 
this  list,  Schaunard  kept  in  perfect  order  a  little 
ledger,  in  which  he  entered  the  amounts  lent  to 
him,  down  to  the  minutest  fractions;  for  he  would 
never  go  beyond  a  certain  figure,  which  was 
within  the  fortune  of  a  Norman  uncle  whose  heir 
he  was.*  As  soon  as  he  owed  twenty  francs  to 
an  individual,  he  closed  the  account,  and  liqui- 
dated it  at  a  single  payment,  even  if  for  the  pur- 
pose he  had  to  borrow  from  others  to  whom  he 
owed  less.  In  this  way  he  always  kept  up  a 
certain  credit,  which  he  called  his  floating  debt, 
and  as  people  knew  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
pay  when  his  personal  resources  permitted,  they 
willingly  obliged  him  when  they  could." 

Schaunard  plays  his  part  to  the  amusement, 
if  not  always  to  the  edification,  of  the  reader  in 
many  delightful  episodes  in  the  "Scenes."  It 
is  through  his  misadventures  with  his  landlord 
that  the  establishment  of  the  club  is  largely, 
though  indirectly,  brought  about;  it  is  he  who 

♦The  "Norman  uncle"  very  possibly  stands  for  Schaune's 
father,  the  toy-manufacturer,  to  whose  business  he  presently  sue- 

209 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

paints  the  provincial  Blancheron's  portrait  in 
fancy  dressing-gown,  while  Marcel  goes  off  to 
dine  with  a  deputy  in  his — the  said  Blancheron's 
—  coat;  it  is  he,  again,  who  is  hired  by  an  Eng- 
lishman to  play  the  piano  from  morning  till  night, 
as  a  means  of  getting  even  with  an  actress  living 
near  by,  whose  parrot  and  shrill  declamation 
combined,  have  proved  rather  too  much  for  even 
British  nerves, — a  transaction  out  of  which,  we 
need  scarcely  add,  the  virtuoso  made  a  good  deal 
more  money  than  he  did  from  his  famous  sym- 
phony. On  the  whole,  however,  of  the  four 
friends  with  whose  doings  our  volume  is  mainly 
occupied,  Schaunard  is  by  far  the  least  attractive 
figure.  He  is  coarse  and  morose;  has  a  harsh, 
rasping  voice;  is  apt  to  be  put  out  about  trifles; 
sometimes  treats  his  male  friends  with  scant 
courtesy;  and  has  an  unpleasant  habit  of  employ- 
ing, with  his  more  intimate  associates  of  the  other 
sex,  Captain  Marryatt's  argumentum  ad  femi- 
nam  —  in  other  words,  of  conversing  with  them 
occasionally  through  the  medium  of  a  stout 
cane.  Poor  Phemie — the  melancholy  Phemie — 
had  every  right  more  than  once  or  twice  to 
complain  of  the  strength  and  efficacy  of  his 
logic;  nor  were  matters  made  very  much  better 
for  her,  we  may  opine,  when,  after  one  of  their 

210 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

quarrels,  he  gave  her  in  grim  joke,  and  as  a 
keepsake,  the  stick  with  which  he  had  addressed 
to  her  so  many  telling  remarks. 

After  Schaunard  comes  Marcel  the  painter, 
a  character  of  more  amiable  type,  who  appears 
to  be  a  compound  portrait  of  the  two  artists, 
Tabar  and  Lazare.  He  is  essentially  a  good 
fellow,  bright,  enthusiastic,  happy-go-lucky,  and 
shiftless;  and  though,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
world  in  which  he  lives,  he  has  an  "  insolent 
confidence  in  luck,"  he  is  manly  enough,  upon 
occasion,  to  "give  fortune  a  helping  hand." 
He  is  the  hero  of  many  amazing  and  some  very 
ludicrous  adventures,  of  which  we  can  find  space 
here  only  for  a  single  specimen.  Like  Schau- 
nard, he  is  devoting  as  much  of  his  time  and 
energy  as  he  can  save  from  the  manufacture  of 
pot-boilers  and  the  consideration  of  the  "ter- 
rible daily  problem  of  how  to  get  breakfast,"  to 
the  composition  of  one  great  work,  which  is  to  be 
his  open  sesame  to  fame — "The  Passage  of  the 
Red  Sea."  *  Was  ever  so  much  labor  expended 
with  such  little  practical  result,  one  may  wonder, 
by  any  artist  whatsoever — painter,  musician,  or 

*  This  incident  of  Marcel's  picture  is  said  to  have  had  its  proto- 
type in  a  composition  of  Tabar's,  originally  sketched  as  "  The  Pas- 
sage of  the  Red  Sea,"  and  afterwards  exhibited  in  the  Salon  as 
"Niobe  and  Her  Children  Slain  by  the  Arrows  of  Apollo  and  Diana." 

211 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

poet  ?  For  five  or  six  years  Marcel  had  worked 
away  at  his  canvas  with  unflagging  diligence  and 
courage,  and  ■ '  for  five  or  six  years  this  master- 
piece of  color  had  been  obstinately  refused  by 
the  jury";  so  that,  by  dint  of  going  and  return- 
ing from  the  artist's  studio  to  the  exhibition, 
and  from  the  exhibition  back  to  the  studio,  the 
picture  had  come  to  know  the  way  so  well,  that, 
had  it  been  set  on  wheels,  it  could  have  gone 
to  the  Louvre  by  itself.  Marcel,  of  course, 
attributed  the  policy  of  the  jury  to  the  personal 
spite  of  its  members,  and  persisted,  in  the  teeth 
of  all  discouragement,  in  regarding  his  produc- 
tion as  the  pendant  to  "The  Marriage  in  Cana." 
Hence,  nothing  daunted,  he  returned  again  and 
again  to  his  vast  design,  after  indulging  in  a 
sufficient  amount  of  abuse  to  relieve  his  ruffled 
temper.  At  length,  under  conviction  that  the 
child  of  this  world  might  possibly  succeed  where 
the  child  of  light  had  failed,  he  began  to  seek 
for  means  whereby,  without  altering  the  general 
plan  of  his  gigantic  undertaking,  he  might  de- 
ceive the  jury  in  supposing  it  to  be  an  entirely 
fresh  and  hitherto  unexamined  work.  Thus, 
one  year  he  turned  Pharaoh  into  Caesar,  and  the 
"Passage  of  the  Red  Sea"  became  "The  Pas- 
sage of  the  Rubicon."     This    ruse  failing,  he 

212 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

covered,  as  by  miracle,  the  Red  Sea  with  snow, 
planted  a  fir-tree  in  one  corner  thereof,  dressed 
an  Egyptian  in  the  costume  of  the  Imperial 
Guard,  and  sent  forth  his  canvas  as  "The  Pas- 
sage of  the  Beresina."  But,  unfortunately,  the 
jury  had  wiped  its  glasses  that  day  and  was  not 
to  be  duped.  It  recognized  the  inexorable 
picture  by  dint  of  a  multi-colored  horse  —  his 
"synoptic  table  of  fine  colors,"  Marcel  privately 
called  this  astonishing  steed  —  that  went  prancing 
about  on  the  top  of  a  wave  of  the  Red  Sea;  and 
again  the  masterpiece  was  churlishly  blackballed. 
"Till  my  dying  day  I  will  send  my  picture  to 
the  judges,"  vowed  Marcel,  after  this  new  re- 
pulse; "it  shall  be  engraved  on  their  memories." 
— "The  surest  way  of  ever  getting  it  engraved," 
remarked  Colline,  who  chanced  to  be  near  by. 
And  so  the  poor  painter  might  have  been  left  to 
try  further  and  still  wilder  experiments,  but  for 
the  kindly  intervention  of  Daddy  Medicis,  an 
old  Jew  who  had  constant  dealings  with  the 
Bohemians,  and  often  managed  to  do  them  a 
friendly  turn  without,  as  may  be  imagined, 
sacrificing  himself  overmuch  in  the  transaction. 
This  singular  individual,  coming  one  evening  to 
Marcel's  room,  offered  to  purchase  the  famous 
picture  "for  the  collection  of  a  rich  amateur," 

213 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

and  proposed  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs  as  a 
fair  price.  At  first,  the  artist  grumbled;  there 
was  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs'  worth  of 
cobalt  in  the  dress  of  Pharaoh  alone,  he  pro- 
tested. But  the  Jew  stood  firm,  and  at  last  the 
painter  yielded ;  whereupon  Daddy  Medicis  gave 
the  Bohemians  a  dinner,  at  which  "the  lobster 
ceased  to  be  a  myth  for  Schaunard,  who  con- 
tracted for  this  amphibious  creature  a  passion 
bordering  on  madness."  As  for  Marcel  himself, 
his  intoxication  came  near  upon  having  deplor- 
able results.  Passing  his  tailor's  shop,  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  actually  wanted  to 
wake  up  his  creditor,  and  give  Ijim  on  account 
the  hundred  and  fifty  francs  he  had  just  received. 
A  ray  of  reason,  which  still  flitted  in  the  mind  of 
Colline,  stopped  the  artist  on  the  brink  of  this 
precipice. 

And  now  for  the  sequel  of  the  story. 

"A  week  after  these  festivities,  Marcel  found  out  the 
gallery  in  which  his  picture  had  been  placed.  In  pass- 
ing through  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore\  he  stopped  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  which  seemed  to  be  watching 
with  curious  interest  a  sign  that  was  being  placed  over 
a  shop.  This  sign  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
Marcel's  picture,  which  had  been  sold  by  Medicis  to 
a  grocer.  Only,  ■  The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea '  had 
undergone  one  more  change,  and  bore  a  new  name. 

214 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

A  steamboat  had  been  added,  and  it  was  now  called 
'The  Harbor  of  Marseilles.'  The  curious  onlookers, 
when  they  saw  the  picture,  burst  out  in  a  flattering  ova- 
tion; and  Marcel  returned  home  in  ecstasy  over  the 
triumph,  murmuring — 'The  voice  of  the  people  is  the 
voice  of  God.' " 

What  part  the  synoptic  charger  was  now  called 
on  to  fill,  unfortunately  we  cannot  say. 

The  third  member  of  our  quartet  is  Gustave 
Colline,  student  of  '  *  hyperphysical  philosophy," 
and  inveterate  perpetrator  of  alarming  puns. 
He  too  is  a  composite  character,  the  principal 
ingredients  of  his  make-up  being  furnished  by 
two  of  Murger's  old  associates — Jean  Walton 
and  Trapadoux,  both  of  whom  were  men  of  im- 
mense and  curious  erudition  and  many  eccentri- 
cities. Colline  himself,  of  a  somewhat  more 
steady  way  of  life  than  his  companions,  gains  a 
fairly  regular  income  by  teaching  mathematics, 
botany,  Arabic,  and  various  other  subjects,  as 
occasion  demands,  and  spends  the  greater  part 
of  it  in  the  accumulation  of  second-hand  books. 
"What  he  did  with  all  these  volumes,"  remarks 
the  historian,  "so  numerous  that  the  life  of  a 
man  would  never  have  sufficed  to  read  them,  no 
one  knew — he  least  of  all."  But  still  he  goes 
on  adding  tome  to  tome,  and  when  he  chances 
to  return  to  his  lodgings  at  night  without  bring- 

215 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

ing  a  new  specimen  to  his  store,  he  feels  that, 
like  the  good  Titus,  he  has  wasted  his  day. 
Thus  his  strange,  shapeless  mouth,  pouting  lips, 
double  chin,  shaggy  light  hair,  and  threadbare, 
hazel-colored  overcoat,  are  well  known  upon  the 
quays  and  wherever  ancient  volumes  are  exposed 
for  sale.  His  tastes  are  catholic  in  the  extreme; 
for  he  will  buy  anything  and  everything  that  is  to 
be  bought,  provided  only  it  is  rare,  out  of  the 
way,  and  for  all  practical  purposes  useless.  Some 
idea  of  the  range  and  versatility  of  his  interests 
may  be  given  by  reference  to  a  single  episode  in 
his  history.  When,  in  company  with  Marcel, 
Rodolphe  gave  that  famous  Christmas  entertain- 
ment, whereof  the  record  is  to  be  found  in  its 
proper  place  in  the  annals  of  Bohemia,  he  insist- 
ed on  borrowing  for  the  occasion  the  philoso- 
pher's famous  swallowtail  coat.  Now,  this  coat, 
as  the  chronicler  justly  suggests,  deserves  a  word 
or  two.  By  courtersy  it  was  held  to  be  black  by 
candle-light,  though  it  was  really  of  a  decided 
blue.  It  was  also  cut  upon  a  wild  and  startling 
plan,  very  short  in  the  waist  and  exceedingly  long 
in  the  tails.  But  its  most  astonishing  features  were 
the  pockets — "positive  gulfs,  in  which  Colline 
was  accustomed  to  lodge  some  thirty  of  the  vol- 
umes which  he  everlastingly  carried  about  with 

216 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

him;  which  caused  his  friends  to  say  that  during 
the  times  when  the  libraries  were  closed  scientists 
and  men  of  letters  could  always  seek  information 
in  the  skirts  of  Colline's  coat — a  library  always 
open  to  readers."  Well,  on  this  particular  day, 
strange  to  relate,  the  great  swallowtail  apparently 
harbored  only  a  quarto  volume  of  Bayle,  a  trea- 
tise in  three  volumes  on  the  hyperphysical  facul- 
ties, a  volume  of  Condillac,  two  of  Swedenborg, 
and  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man."  "Hullo!"  ex- 
claimed Rodolphe,  when  the  philosopher  had 
turned  out  this  odd  collection  and  allowed  the 
other  to  don  the  imposing  habit;  "the  left  pocket 
still  feels  very  heavy;  there  is  still  something  in 
it."— "Ah!"  replied  Colline,  "that  is  true;  I 
forgot  to  empty  the  foreign  language  pocket." 
Whereupon  he  drew  out  two  Arabic  grammars, 
a  Malay  dictionary,  and  "The  Perfect  Stock- 
Breeder"  in  Chinese  —  his  favorite  reading.* 
Nor  was  this  quite  all.  Later  on,  in  looking  for 
his  handkerchief,  Rodolphe  came  accidentally 
upon  a  small  Tartar  volume,  overlooked  in  the 
department  of  foreign  literature. 

*  This  famous  volume  appears  in  an  "  Edition  princeps,"  with 
"  notes  in  modern  Syriac,"  in  the  very  amusing  story,  "  Son  Excel- 
lence Gustave  Colline,"  which  really  forms  an  episode  of  the 
"  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme,"  though  it  is  published  in  the  col- 
lection of  miscellanies  entitled  "  Dona  Sirene." 

217 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

For  the  rest,  Colline  is  a  very  agreeable  com- 
panion, pleasant  of  manner,  and  courteous  of 
bearing;  and  his  conversation  is  amusingly  spiced 
with  quaint  technical  expressions  and  the  most 
outrageous  puns.  Unlike  his  three  companions, 
who  are  in  perpetual  bondage  to  love,  he  passes 
on,  for  the  most  part,  in  bachelor  meditation, 
fancy  free,  as  becomes  a  philosopher  of  the 
"  hyperphysical  school."  Once  in  a  while,  we 
find  him  flirting  a  little  with  the  bonne  amie  of 
one  of  his  friends,  and  we  recall  a  single  occasion 
on  which,  according  to  his  own  statement,  he  had 
an  appointment  of  a  romantic  character.  We 
read  also,  in  the  most  incidental  way,  of  his 
devotion  to  a  waistcoat-maker,  whom  he  keeps 
day  and  night  copying  the  manuscripts  of  his 
philosophical  works.  But  at  these,  as  at  all  other 
times,  the  lady  of  his  affections  remains  "invisi- 
ble and  anonymous."  In  general,  it  may  be 
said  that  he  shows  himself  markedly  superior  to 
the  human  weakness  which  does  so  much  to  dis- 
turb the  byways  of  Bohemia  no  less  than  the 
highways  of  the  outer  world. 

Music,  painting,  and  philosophy  are  thus  well 
represented  in  the  Bohemian  cZnacle,  and  in 
Rodolphe,  the  last  of  the  group,  the  sister  art 
of  poetry  finds  a  worthy  exponent.     Rodolphe 

218 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

is  the  real  hero  of  the  book,  and  is  indeed  an 
approximately  faithful  sketch  of  the  author  him- 
self. In  the  fancy-poet  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  the 
man  who,  in  the  very  cut  of  his  clothes,  man- 
ners, appearance,  conversation,  "  confessed  his 
association  with  the  Muses,"  many  of  Murger's 
well-known  traits  of  character  and  personal  idio- 
syncrasies are  frankly  reproduced.  We  have  a 
brief  but  sufficiently  detailed  description  of  him 
when  he  makes  his  first  appearance  in  the  Cafe 
Momus,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the 
artist's  model  from  which  the  study  is  made. 
He  is  presented  as  "a  young  man  whose  face 
was  almost  lost  in  an  enormous  thicket  of  many- 
colored  beard.  But,  as  a  set-off  against  this  abun- 
dance of  hair  on  the  chin,  a  precocious  baldness 
had  dismantled  his  forehead,  which  looked  like 
a  knee,  and  the  nakedness  of  which  a  few  stray 
hairs  that  one  might  have  counted  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  cover.  He  wore  a  black  coat,  tonsured  at 
the  elbows,  and  with  practical  ventilators  under 
the  armpits,  which  could  be  seen  whenever  he 
raised  his  arm  too  high.  His  trousers  might 
once  have  been  black,  but  his  shoes,  which  had 
never  been  new,  seemed  to  have  several  times 
made  the  tour  of  the  world  on  the  feet  of  the 
Wandering  Jew. ' '    In  all  this — in  the  precocious 

219 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

baldness  and  parti-colored  beard  especially — we 
have  the  historian  of  Bohemia  himself.  We  do 
not,  therefore,  wonder  that  the  character  of  Ro- 
dolphe  should  stand  out  from  among  the  other 
figures  of  the  "Scenes,"  by  reason  of  a  certain 
autobiographic  distinctness  of  outline  and  color, 
nor  that  he  should  prevail  upon  us  by  a  kind 
of  personal  charm  which  his  companions  rarely 
possess. 

To  follow  Rodolphe's  various  adventures  and 
enterprises  back  to  their  originals  in  Murger's 
life,  would  be  an  interesting  task,  but  it  is  one 
that  cannot  be  attempted  here;  and  for  the  time 
being  we  must  keep  to  the  poet  in  the  book. 
Like  his  friends  Schaunard  and  Marcel,  this 
young  man  has  pinned  his  faith  to  one  ambitious 
work,  a  drama  called  the  "The  Avenger,"  which 
has  already  gone  the  round  of  all  the  theatres 
of  Paris,  and  of  which  in  the  course  of  a  couple 
of  years,  he  has  accumulated  a  dozen  or  so  huge 
manuscript  copies,  weighing  collectively  some- 
thing like  fifteen  pounds.  "The  Avenger"  was 
ultimately  produced,  and  ran  for  five  successive 
nights,  after  large  portions  of  these  carefully 
wrought  versions  had  been  used  up  in  the  hum- 
ble service  of  lighting  the  fire.  But  this  does 
not  come  till  towards  the  end  of  the  story;  and 

220 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

during  the  days  when  we  know  him  best,  Ro- 
dolphe,  awaiting  his  dramatic  triumph,  is  willing 
enough  to  turn  his  literary  talents  to  account  in 
less  dignified  ways.  The  main  sources  of  his  in- 
come appear  to  be  "  The  Scarf  of  Iris,"  a  fashion- 
journal,  and  "The  Castor,"  a  paper  devoted  to 
the  interests  of  the  hat-trade,  both  of  which  he 
edits,  and  in  which  he  publishes  from  time  to 
time  his  opinions  on  tragedy  and  kindred  sub- 
jects. It  is  to  the  columns  of  the  latter  periodi- 
cal, by-the-by,  that  Gustave  Colline  contributes 
a  discussion  on  "The  Philosophy  of  Hats,  and 
Other  Things  in  General" — how  much  to  the 
amusement  and  instruction  of  its  readers  we  are 
unfortunately  not  told.  Probably  the  financial 
advantages  of  these  two  undertakings  are  of  a 
rather  slight  and  unsubstantial  character;  at  any 
rate,  the  editor-in-chief  shows  himself  at  all 
times  ready  to  supplement  his  official  emolu- 
ments whensoever  occasion  offers.  Witness  his 
most  famous  piece  of  hack-work,  the  composi- 
tion of  "The  Perfect  Chimney  Constructor." 
Rodolphe,  who  has  been  sadly  down  on  his  luck 
for  a  time — fluctuating  between  going  to  bed 
without  supper  and  supping  without  going  to 
bed  —  happens  accidentally  to  run  across  his 
Uncle  Monetti,  a  stove-maker  and  physician  of 

221 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

smoky  chimneys,  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  an 
age.  Now,  Monsieur  Monetti  is  an  enthusiast  in 
his  art,  and  has  conceived  the  idea  of  drawing 
up  for  the  benefit  of  future  generations,  a  man- 
ual of  chimney-construction,  in  which  his  own 
numerous  patents  shall  be  given  adequate  pres- 
entation. Finding  his  nephew  fallen  upon  evil 
days,  he  intrusts  him  with  this  literary  enter- 
prise, promising  him  a  remuneration  of  three 
hundred  francs,  and  rashly  giving  him  outright 
fifty  francs  on  account.  Of  course,  Rodolphe 
incontinently  disappears,  and  only  turns  up  again 
when  the  money  has  disappeared  also.  Uncle 
Monetti  then  resorts  to  drastic  measures.  He 
locks  the  volatile  young  gentleman  in  a  small 
room,  six  stories  up,  with  stoves  and  ovens  for 
his  company,  and  takes  away  his  clothes,  leaving 
in  their  stead  a  ridiculous  Turkish  dressing-gown. 
In  this  attic  solitude  the  unfortunate  young  poet 
is  fain  to  wax  eloquent  over  ventilators,  till  he  is 
rescued  in  the  most  romantic  way  by  a  certain 
Mademoiselle  Sidonia,  as  the  reader  will  find 
recorded  at  length  in  its  proper  place  in  the 
Bohemian  chronicles. 

In  connection  with  one  extraordinary  episode 
in  Rodolphe' s  career — his  sudden  receipt  of 
five  hundred  francs  in  hard  cash — we  have  an 

222 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

excellent  opportunity  of  studying  some  of  the 
mysteries  of  Bohemian  finance.  He  and  Marcel, 
who  was  then  his  fellow-lodger,  regarded  this 
colossal  sum  as  practically  inexhaustible;  they 
were  not  a  little  surprised,  therefore,  to  find, 
before  a  fortnight  had  gone  by,  that  it  had  van- 
ished into  air,  as  though  by  magic.  The  strictest 
frugality  had  presided  over  all  their  expendi- 
tures, and  the  question  was,  where  in  the  world 
the  money  could  have  gone  to.  Into  this 
problem  the  two  economists  forthwith  made  in- 
quisition, analyzing  their  accounts,  and  carefully 
weighing  them  item  by  item.  This  is  about  the 
way  in  which  the  audit  was  conducted: — 

"  March  19.  —  Received  five  hundred  francs. 
Paid,  one  Turkish  pipe,  twenty-five  francs;  din- 
ner, fifteen  francs;  miscellaneous  expenses,  forty 
francs,"  Marcel  read  out. 

' '  What  in  the  world  are  these  miscellaneous 
expenses?"  asked  Rodolphe. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  said  the  other. 
11  It  was  the  evening  when  we  did  n't  come  home 
till  morning.  At  any  rate,  that  saved  us  fuel 
and  candles." 

There  is  nothing  like  rigid  economy,  as  we  see. 

"March  20. — Breakfast,  one  franc,  fifty  cen- 
times;   tobacco,  twenty   centimes;    dinner,   two 

223 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

francs;  an  opera  glass" — needed  by  Rodolphe, 
who,  as  editor  of  the  "Scarf  of  Iris,"  had  to 
write  a  notice  of  an  art  exhibition;  and  so  on, 
and  so  on.  As  the  account  continued,  "mis- 
cellaneous expenses"  reappeared  with  ever- 
increasing  frequency;  indeed,  the  two  financiers 
had  in  the  end  to  admit  that  this  "vague  and 
perfidious  title,"  as  Rodolphe  called  it,  had 
proved  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 

Such,  then,  are  the  four  principal  characters 
with  whose  doings  and  misdoings  the  "Scenes 
of  Bohemian  Life"  are  mainly  occupied.  A 
word  only  about  the  women  of  the  book. 

It  is  while  he  is  in  their  company,  I  suppose, 
more  than  at  any  other  time,  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  reader  feels  how  far  the  pathways  of 
Bohemia  lie  outside  the  boundaries  of  respecta- 
ble society.  Louise,  the  fickle  bird  of  passage; 
Musette,  vagabond  and  careless;  Mimi,  charm- 
ing, heartless,  ill-fated;  Phemie,  beneath  whose 
delicate  exterior  was  concealed  a  veritable  vol- 
cano of  passion; — yes,  the  face  of  the  moralist 
will  certainly  harden  as  he  dwells  on  the  giddy 
vagrancy  of  their  lives,  and  the  hopeless  tragedy 
in  which  the  music  and  the  laughter  inevitably 
find  their  earthly  close.     About  this  matter  I 

224 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

shall  try  to  say  something  presently.  For  the 
moment  I  want  only  to  point  out  that,  though 
the  women  of  Murger's  book  are  drawn  from 
known  or  conjectured  originals,  the  portraiture 
does  not  seem  to  be  nearly  as  close  as  it  is 
throughout  in  the  case  of  the  men.  This  does 
not  mean  only  that  each  girl  in  the  "Scenes" 
is  a  more  or  less  blurred  compound  of  various 
famous  figures  of  the  old  Latin  Quarter;  it 
means,  also — and  this  is,  of  course,  far  more 
important,  —  that  the  characters  have  undergone 
much  transfiguration.  The  magic  and  grace  by 
which,  amid  all  their  personal  shortcomings  and 
delinquencies,  these  heedless  adventurers  of  the 
studio  and  the  cafe  are  actually  marked,  are 
largely,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  results  of  Murger's 
own  idealizing  imagination  and  delicately  poetic 
touch. 

There  is  an  important  point,  suggested  by  the 
present  part  of  our  subject,  which  demands  a 
moment's  attention.  The  principle  indicated  in 
the  well-known  lines  of  Lafontaine — 

M  Deux  coqs  vivaient  en  paix:  une  poule  survint, 
Et  voila  la  guerre  allum£e ! " — 

is  generally  held  to  be  one  of  universal  applica- 
bility. But  the  life  of  our  Bohemian  brother- 
hood for  once  gives  it  the  lie  direct     Never, 

225 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

even  in  the  most  trying  seasons  of  love  and 
jealousy,  did  the  ties  slacken  which  bound  the 
four  companions — Colline,  the  great  philoso- 
pher; Marcel,  the  great  painter;  Schaunard,  the 
great  musician;  and  Rodolphe,  the  great  poet — 
as  they  called  one  another.  Rodolphe  and 
Mimi  might  lead  a  cat-and-dog  life;  Marcel 
might  quarrel  with  Musette,  and  make  it  up 
only  to  quarrel  again;  Schaunard  might  see  fit 
to  address  some  of  his  telling  observations  to  the 
person  of  the  melancholy  Phemie;  but  artist 
and  poet,  philosopher  and  painter,  rubbed  on 
together  in  peace;  and  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  smoked  many  a  pipe  in  company  over  the 
grave  of  their  dead  passions.  Truly  the  domes- 
tic side  of  their  life  left  much  to  be  desired.  At 
one  time  they  all  occupied  the  same  house,  and 
then  the  unfortunate  neighbors  lived,  as  it  were, 
on  a  volcano.  Six  months  went  by;  things  grew 
daily  more  and  more  intolerable;  and  then  the 
final  breaking-up  of  the  establishment  came  about. 
"But,"  adds  Murger — and  the  remark  exhibits 
clearly  the  kind  of  understanding  which  existed 
among  the  strangely-assorted  friends — "in  this 
association,  despite  the  three  young  and  pretty 
women  who  formed  part  of  it,  no  sign  of  discord 
appeared  among  the  men.    They  frequently  gave 

226 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

way  to  the  most  absurd  caprices  of  their  mis- 
tresses; but  not  one  of  them  would  have  hesitated 
a  moment  between  the  woman  and  the  friend." 

Amid  all  the  uncertainties  and  anxieties,  the 
follies  and  the  vices  of  their  daily  life,  these 
brother  Bohemians  are  possessed  of  a  very  keen 
and  genuine  enthusiasm  for  art,  and  of  a  sturdy 
faith  in  themselves  and  their  own  high  calling. 
This  is  one  good  aspect  of  their  character;  an- 
other and  complementary  aspect,  upon  which 
Murger  lays  much  stress,  is  their  complete  free- 
dom from  stiff-necked  virtuosity  and  dilettante 
affectations.  There  are  Bohemians  who  chatter 
only  of  "art  for  art's  sake,"  who  hold  with  in- 
flexible obstinacy  and  stoical  pride  to  the  narrow 
path  they  have  marked  out  for  themselves,  who 
scorn  to  descend,  upon  any  pretext,  for  any  pur- 
pose whatsoever,  to  the  plane  of  common  affairs. 
But  Murger  takes  pains  to  make  it  clear  that 
Rodolphe  and  his  friends  do  not  belong  to  this 
unfortunate  class — the  "Buveurs  d'Eau,"  as 
they  are  called,  the  first  tenet  of  whose  creed 
is  that  no  one  of  their  number,  on  penalty  of 
expulsion  from  the  society,  shall  accept  any 
work  outside  pure  art  itself.*     Rodolphe,  as  we 

♦See  "  Les  Derniers  Buveurs  d'  Eau,"  in  "  Dona  Sirene  " ;  "  Les 
227 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

know,  is  working  hard  upon  his  great  tragedy; 
Marcel,  upon  his  "Passage  of  the  Red  Sea"; 
Schaunard,  upon  his  symbolic  symphony;  Col- 
line,  upon  his  system  of  ' '  Hyperphysical  Philos- 
ophy": but  there  are  no  cant  phrases  of  art- 
worship  everlastingly  upon  their  lips,  and  they 
are  ready  enough  to  turn  their  energies,  when 
opportunity  offers,  into  more  remunerative,  if 
less  ambitious,  undertakings.  We  have  seen 
something  already  of  the  practical  means,  some- 
times adopted  by  them,  of  putting  a  figure 
before  the  cipher,  which  unfortunately,  as  a  rule, 
constitutes  their  entire  available  capital.  If  fur- 
ther evidence  be  demanded,  we  need  only  refer 
to  the  occasions  when  Rodolphe  versifies  an 
epitaph  for  an  inconsolable  widow  and  turns  off 
a  rhyming  advertisement  for  a  dentist,  and  when 
Marcel  paints  eight  grenadiers  at  six  francs 
apiece — likenesses  guaranteed  for  a  year,  like  a 
watch. 

Of  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life"  as  a 
whole,  it  would  be  hopeless  to  endeavor  to  give 
any  general  idea  within  the  limits  of  a  rapid 
sketch.     It  is  little  to  say  that  from  cover  to 

Buveurs  d'Eau";  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Jeunesse"  ;  and  the 
"Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme,"  preface,  and  the  story  of  "Le 
Manchon  de  Francine." 

228 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

cover  of  this  wonderful  book  there  is  not  a  dull 
or  indifferent  page — not  a  page  that  does  not 
teem  with  quaint  description,  brilliant  bits  of 
characterization,  vivid  pictures  of  manners  and 
life.  Of  the  range  and  opulence  of  its  humor 
some  hint  has  perhaps  been  given,  though  the 
merest  hint  only,  in  the  personal  delineations  at- 
tempted above.  Mirth-compelling  the  "Scenes" 
certainly  are,  and  we  feel  in  their  case,  as  we  can- 
not always  feel  with  the  masterpieces  of  the 
French  comic  genius,  that  the  laughter  they  pro- 
voke is  generous,  hearty,  wholesome  —  laughter 
without  taint  of  cynicism  or  spite.  But  the  humor 
of  the  volume,  rich  and  racy  as  it  is,  and  the 
ebullient  wit  that  glitters  and  flashes  in  its  dia- 
logues and  incidental  touches  of  comment  and 
criticism,  are  not  by  any  means  the  only  quali- 
ties that  deserve  attention.  Murger  was  a  true 
humorist,  and,  like  all  true  humorists,  he  had  the 
keenest  realization  of  the  pathos  and  tragedy  of 
life,  the  most  delicate  apprehension  of  "the  sense 
of  tears  in  mortal  things. '  ■  Though  it  can  hardly 
be  said  of  the  "Scenes  of  Bohemian  Life,"  as  it 
has  been  rightly  said  of  the  great  body  of  the 
author's  work,  that  the  dominant  note  is  one  of 
poignant  melancholy,  the  minor  chords  are  heavy 
and  frequent  enough  to  tone  down  the  exube- 

229 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

rant  gayety  of  the  volume,  and  to  cause  the  final 
impression  left  by  it  to  be  rather  sombre  than 
exhilarating.  Murger  saw  much  of  the  reckless 
and  irresponsible  life  of  the  Latin  Quarter  on  its 
grotesque  side,  and  he  has  given  this  side  extra- 
ordinary prominence  in  this  particular  book,  re- 
serving many  of  the  harsher  features,  which  from 
personal  contact  he  knew  equally  well,  for  the 
"Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Jeunesse"  and  the  "Bu- 
veurs  d'Eau."  But  the  reader  who  follows  to 
their  close  the  chapters  we  have  here  more  espe- 
cially been  considering — and  who  can  put  them 
down  unfinished  ?  —  will  find  that  their  brilliancy 
of  light  and  color  are  thrown  up  against  a  very 
dark  background,  and  that  the  shadows  gather 
and  deepen  about  us  as  the  story  runs  its  course. 
At  length,  the  wild  music  ceases  altogether;  the 
mad  laughter  is  silenced;  and  the  book  is  laid 
by,  not  with  a  burst  of  final  merriment,  but  with 
a  gulp  and  a  pang.  Ah>  comme  nous  avons  ri! 
Yes,  the  struggles,  the  privations,  the  absurdities 
of  Bohemia  are  comical  enough;  but  life  is  stern, 
even  in  this  Land  of  Romance;  there  is  death  in 
it,  and  many  a  heartbreak;  and  if  we  escape  the 
suffering  of  failure,  we  must  accept  the  inevitable 
disillusion  of  success.  Life,  too,  is  fleeting;  the 
golden  sands  slip  through  our  fingers  as  we  try 

230 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

to  clutch  them.  Eheu  fugaces!  It  is  the  old- 
world  burden  that  we  must  needs  end  with — 
"La  jeunesse  n'a  qu'un  temps!" 

No  —  "ce  n'est  pas  gai  tous  les  jours,  la  Bo- 
heme."  For  my  own  part,  I  know  not  whither 
one  could  turn  to  find  pages  of  purer  tenderness 
and  pathos  than  those  in  which  Murger  has 
written  of  Francine's  muff  and  of  the  death 
of  poor  little  Mimi.  And  yet,  there  is  no  effort, 
no  melodramatic  striving  after  effect.  The  lips 
quiver,  the  eyes  grow  dim  as  we  read;  but  so 
admirably  is  the  art  concealed,  so  perfect  is  the 
reserve  under  which  it  is  all  done,  that  it  is  only 
when  we  come  to  turn  back  over  the  chapters 
for  the  express  purpose  of  analyzing  them,  that 
we  begin  to  realize  the  author's  exquisite  percep- 
tion and  tact,  and  the  genius  with  which  he 
carries  his  meaning  straight  home  to  our  hearts. 
Poor  Francine!  Poor  Mimi!  These  fragile  slips 
of  womanhood  from  the  dingy  old  Latin  Quarter 
are  filled  with  the  life  that  the  poet  alone  can 
give.  We  meet  them  once  in  a  few  pages  of 
print;  and  their  hungry  eyes  and  poor,  worn 
faces  linger  with  us  forever. 

And  now  we  must  revert  for  a  moment  to  a 
question  already  touched  on — the  loose  morality 

231 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

not  infrequently  charged  against  this  record  of 
Bohemian  life.  I  promised  that  I  should  try  to 
say  something  about  this  matter  ere  I  brought 
these  jottings  to  a  close;  but  now  that  it  is  defi- 
nitely before  us,  I  do  not  feel,  after  all,  that  there 
is  very  much  to  be  said.  Our  judgment  on  such 
a  book  as  this,  ethically  considered,  must  finally 
depend  on  the  point  of  view  from  which  we 
regard  it,  and  this  point  of  view  will  always  be 
at  bottom  so  much  an  affair  of  temperament,  out- 
look, training,  bias,  that  it  is  not  likely  to  be 
much  affected  by  any  arguments,  adverse  or 
favorable.  "Certainly,"  Murger  once  imagines 
one  of  his  readers  saying,  "I  shall  not  allow 
this  story  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  my  daughter.'* 
To  this,  doubtless,  most  Anglo-Saxon  fathers 
would  say  amen,  and  there  is  little  question  that 
they  would,  on  the  whole,  be  wise  in  so  doing. 
I  readily  admit  that  it  would  be  better  that  the 
perusal  of  such  a  work  as  this,  as  of  many  other 
great  and  enduring  pieces  of  literature,  should 
be  left  for  those  whose  minds  have  been  schooled 
and  sobered  by  the  discipline  of  real  life,  and 
who  are  thus  in  a  position  to  bring  Murger' s 
imaginary  scenes,  with  all  their  bewitching  hu- 
mor, magic  of  description,  and  charm  of  style, 
to  the  touchstone  of  actual  experience.      But 

232 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

while  I  concede  this  much,  I  cannot  for  a  mo- 
ment go  with  those  who  would,  therefore,  place 
the  volume  on  their  unofficial  "  Index  Expurga- 
torius,"  on  the  score  that  it  will  be  found  dan- 
gerous to  morality.  Such  a  notion  seems  to 
me  simply  absurd,  and  due  to  an  entire  mis- 
apprehension of  what  it  is  in  literature  that  ren- 
ders it  injurious  in  its  effects.  Murger  drew  his 
material  from  a  world  he  had  known  and  lived 
in,  and  he  incorporates  all  its  irregularities  of 
conduct,  and  very  much  of  its  wantonness.  Yet  I 
challenge  any  intelligent  and  broad-minded  read- 
er to  deny  that  the  atmosphere  of  his  " Scenes" 
is  almost  always  fresh  and  wholesome.  Those  at 
least  who  know  something  of  the  French  novel, 
from  * *  La  Dame  aux  Camelias ' '  onward,  and  of 
some  of  the  English  fiction  produced  within  re- 
cent decades,  by  writers  who  boldly  claim  place 
in  the  ranks  of  the  moralists,  will  hardly  feel 
called  upon  to  attack  our  author  on  this  particu- 
lar head.  Nowhere,  let  it  be  said  emphatically, 
does  Murger  deliberately  give  himself  up  to  the 
worship  of  the  great  Goddess  of  Lubricity;  no- 
where does  he  willingly  throw  the  halo  of  poe- 
try over  mere  physical  passion;  nowhere  does 
he  go  out  of  his  way  to  show  vice  as  vice  in 
glowing  or  attractive  colors.     These  may  read 

233 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

like  phrases  of  the  most  conventional  criticism, 
but  they  are  here  thoroughly  to  the  point.  The 
very  story  which  the  writer  stops  short  for  a 
moment  to  interject  the  imaginary  comment 
quoted  above,  is  as  pure  and  delicate  as  a  love- 
story  well  could  be,  and  only  a  reader  capable 
of  sucking  poison  out  of  a  lily,  could  be  dis- 
turbed in  the  slightest  degree  by  the  irregularity 
of  the  relations  existing  between  Jacques  and 
poor  Francine.  It  can  never  be  often  urged 
that  in  such  a  case  as  this — perhaps  in  all  art 
whatsoever  —  the  one  fundamentally  essential 
thing  is  treatment;  and  with  Murger's  handling 
of  his  theme,  no  possible  fault  could  be  found, 
even  by  the  most  austere  and  exacting  critic. 

A  more  substantial  charge  may,  I  think,  be 
brought  against  the  "Scenes,"  on  the  ground 
that  in  their  delightful  pages  the  shiftless,  im- 
provident, hand-to-mouth  existence  of  Rodolphe 
and  his  friends  is  made  too  engaging  and  seduc- 
tive. Are  there  not,  it  may  be  asked,  scores  of 
young  men  who  believe  that  they  have  (in  very 
large  capitals)  Genius  and  a  Mission  in  Art,  and 
who  need  nothing  but  the  incentive  of  such  a  vol- 
ume as  this  to  lead  them  to  throw  aside  the  sober 
concerns  of  law  or  commerce,  and  voluntarily 
exchange  a  career  of  useful,  if  monotonous,  toil, 

234 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

for  one  wherein  immediate  misery  is  practically 
certain,  and  ultimate  success  only  a  remote 
chance?  Youths  of  some  sensibility  and  ambi- 
tion, who  hate  the  counting-house  and  the  desk; 
who  have  written  verses  or  made  sketches  which 
have  been  praised  by  injudicious  friends;  and 
who  have  devoured  the  numerous  biographies 
of  those  who,  having  commenced  life  in  uncon- 
genial labor,  boldly  kicked  over  the  traces  and 
finally  made  for  themselves  a  position  and  a 
name,  are  prone  enough,  it  may  be  alleged,  to 
mistake  themselves  for  great  men  in  embryo, 
and  to  set  up  their  backs  against  the  daily  rou- 
tine and  the  common  task,  without  the  aid  of  a 
book  which  paints  Bohemia  so  constantly  on  its 
pleasantest  side,  and  gives  to  even  its  struggles 
and  sufferings  a  romantic  charm,  which  the  jog- 
trot round  of  experience  does  not  possess.  All 
this,  perhaps,  is  true.  At  any  rate,  I  have  my- 
self known  one  young  fellow  of  the  class  referred 
to  who,  under  Murger's  inspiration,  played  for 
a  time  at  Bohemianism,  allowed  his  hair  to  grow 
down  over  his  shoulders,  wore  by  preference  a 
threadbare  coat,  and  posed  as  an  unappreciated 
genius.  His  genius,  I  believe,  remains  unrecog- 
nized still;  but  he  has  long  since  assumed  a 
respectable  garb,  and  given  other  outward  and 

235 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

visible  signs  of  his  perversion  to  conventionality. 
And  yet,  even  with  this  instructive  case  well  in 
mind,  I  think  too  much  might  easily  be  made 
of  the  harmful  tendencies  of  Murger's  book. 
The  Sturm  und  Drang  period  of  youth,  the 
period  of  ferment,  and  aimless  experiment,  and 
general  unrest,  will  always  be  fraught  with  perils 
of  one  or  another  kind;  and  a  few  wild  dreams 
of  vague  ambition,  some  spiritual  green-sickness, 
an  attack  or  two  of  the  hysterics  of  social  revolt, 
a  little  affectation  of  Byronism,  or  Shelleyism, 
or  Murgerism,  are  not  the  worst  of  these.  For- 
tunately, the  real  world  is  a  businesslike  and 
remorseless  disciplinarian,  and  in  the  school  of 
practical  experience,  a  nature  essentially  healthy 
will  presently  right  itself,  and  be  none  the  worse 
— perhaps  even  the  better — for  a  handful  of 
battered  illusions  and  some  pricked  bubbles  of 
fancy.  And  as  for  the  natures  not  fundamentally 
healthy — well,  Life  the  Schoolmistress  has  her 
own  effectual  way  with  these  also. 

But  should  there  perchance  be  any  young  man 
in  danger  of  taking  the  Bohemian  fever  a  trifle 
too  seriously,  we  will  refer  him  for  treatment  to  a 
very  satisfactory  physician,  a  specialist,  one  may 
say,  in  the  complaint — Murger  himself.  Prop- 
erly read,  and  read  through  to  the  end,  the 

236 


A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia 

"Scenes"  should  prove  their  own  corrective; 
and  if  their  full  significance  is  not  clear,  the 
preface  furnishes  the  needed  commentary.  It  is 
but  simple  justice  to  Murger  to  say  that  he  him- 
self had  no  sympathy  whatever  with  the  indefi- 
nite ambitions  and  mawkish  sentimentalism  of  a 
certain  class  of  young  men,  who  mistake  the 
cravings  of  aspiration  for  the  promptings  of 
genius,  and  turn  to  art  because  they  are  fit  for 
nothing  else.  Again  and  again  does  he  insist 
upon  the  stern  realities  of  the  artist's  probation; 
again  and  again  does  he  raise  the  voice  of  warn- 
ing to  those  who  would  rashly  decide  to  commit 
themselves  to  the  artist's  career. 

"  II  en  est  dans  les  luttes  de  l'art  a  peu  pr&s  comme 
a  la  guerre  —  toute  la  gloire  conquise  rejaillit  sur  le 
nom  des  chefs.  L'arm^e  se  partage  pour  recompense 
les  quelques  lignes  d'un  ordre  du  jour.  Quant  aux 
soldats  frapp£s  dans  le  combat,  on  les  enterre  la  ou  ils 
sont  tomb£s,  et  une  seule  £pitaphe  suffit  pour  vingt 
mille  morts."  * 

These  are  solemn  and  uncompromising  words. 
And  scarcely  less  solemn  are  the  phrases  in  which 
he  describes  the  life  of  Bohemia  as  "charming 
but  terrible,  having  its  conquerors  and  its  mar- 
tyrs"— a  life  upon  which  no  one  should  enter 

*"Les  Derniers  Buveurs  d'Eau,"  in  "Dona  Sirene."  Murger 
uses  precisely  the  same  words  in  the  preface  just  referred  to. 

237 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROW 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY — TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  o 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


ffiT  2  6  1973  5 


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V 


^ 


LD  21A-38m-5,'68 
(,T401slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  27554 


